PS   17?9  G8  S 

"SITY   OF   CALIFORNIA     SAN    DIEGO 


3   1822  01066  3615 


LIBRARY 


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I      UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
1      SAN  DIEGO 


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3  1822  01066  3615 


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Stolen  Waters 


BY 


CELIA    E.     GARDNER. 


"Stoleu  waters  are  sweet." 

PROVERBS,  IX.  17. 


M& 


NEW     YORK: 

G.    W.    Carleton    &?    Co.y    Publishers. 

LONDON:   S.  LOW,   SON  &  CO. 
M.DCCC.LXXI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

G.   W.   CARLETON   &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Stereotyped  at  the 

WOMEN'S    rillMTING    nODSE, 

Corner  Avenue  A  and  Eighth  Street, 

New  York. 


1871. 


TO-    ONE 

"WHO  HAS  PROVED 

AT  ALL  TIMES  THAT   HE   IS 

THE    DEAREST,     TnE     NOBLEST,     THE     TRUEST, 

|  ibis  Jltbirate, 

with  the  gratitude,  love,  and  esteem 
of  a  iieart  that  has  yet  never  known  sweeter  dreams 
than  those  he  has  filled,  and  whose  frayer  is,  when  death 
shall  have  stilled  ocr  hearts'  current  with  his  icy  breath, 
we  may  stand  with  each  other  before  the  white  throne, 
of  him  unto  whom  all  heart-secrets  are  known, 
who,  tempted  in  all  points  as  we  are,  looks  down 
with  compassion  divine,  as  he  studs  our  bright  crowns 
with  a  gem  for  each  cross  we  endure,  while  we  wait 
for  tne  summons  that  cometh  to  all,  soon  or  late, 
thus  grateful,  and  nopeful,  i  tnis  work  to  thee 
consecrate  i  proud  to  sign  myself 

THINE, 

C.    E.    G. 


PRELUDE. 


« ♦ »' 


You  who  never  have  loved — you  who  never  were  tried, 
Lay  this  volume,  without  a  perusal,  aside  ! 
Should  you  read  it,  you'd  find  much  to  shock  preconceived 
Ideas  of  what  should  and  what  should  not  be. 
You  would  find  no  perfection  of  character  here  ; 
Only  weak  human  nature — the  hopes  and  the  fears 
Of  a  heart,  if  undisciplined,  loving  and  true  ; 
Temptations  resisted,  and  yielded  unto  ; 
And  the  tale  of  a  love  far  beyond  estimation, 
All  potent,  in  doubt  or  in  realization. 

I  claim  for  my  heroine,  nothing !  except 

Her  humanity.     Yet  from  the  reader  expect 

The  remembrance  that  this  is  a  Journal,  wherein 

She  confides  all  her  secrets  ;  some  which  would  have  been 

Most  carefully,  jealously  guarded,  'tis  plain, 

From  the  world.     For  my  hero,  your  honor,  I  claim. 

For  my  woi'k,  ask  that  your  criticism  be  mild, 

Recollecting,  in  authorship,  I'm  but  a  child. 


Sev'ral  similar  cases  to  this  having  come 
Under  my  observation,  when  there  has  been  done 
By  the  world  much  injustice  to  those  who  have  proved 
In  the  end,  although  human,  both  earnest  and  true, 
Three  things  it  has  been  my  endeavor  to  show  ; 


•  •  • 


viii  PRELUDE. 

And  lest  I  have  failed  in  portraying  them  so 

That  they  may  be  discerned, — like  an  artist  I  know, 

Who  writes  o'er  the  landscape  he  paints,  "  These  are  trees," 

So  I  o'er  my  work  write  the  points,  which  are  these  :  — 

First !  That  no  one  can  tell  what  they'll  do  'till  they're  tried, 
Must  in  like  circumstances  be  placed  to  decide. 
That  those  the  most  strong  in  asserting  their  own 
Immaculateness  are  most  often  the  ones, 
Not  alone  to  be  tried  in  that  special  respect, 
But  to  yield  to  the  offered  temptation  when  met. 

Second!    That  it  is  possible,  for  e'en  a  love 
That's  forbidden — impassioned  and  earnest  above 
All  expression,  to  be  not  alone  true  but  pure. 
And  that  love  without  marriage  not  always  ensures 
Criminality  for  those  who  to  it  succumb. 
And  that  a  true  love  can  but  act  upon  one 
Beneficially,  and  a  refiner  become. 

And  third  !     That  though  conscience  and  principle  may 
For  a  time  be  crushed  down,  in  the  end  their  full  sway 
They'll  resume,  and  accomplish  what  naught  else  could  do. 
And  with  this  prelude  brief,  I  my  work  leave  with  you. 


STOLEN     WATERS. 


PART    FIRST. 


•  Sweet  are  stolen  waters !  pleasant  is  the  bread 
In  secret  eaten." 

Pollock. 

"  Anil  thus,  unnoticed  and  apart, 
And  more  by  accident  than  choice, 
I  listened  to  that  single  voice, 
Until  the  chambers  of  my  heart 
Were  filled  with  it  by  night  and  day." 

Longfellow. 


Stolen  "Waters 


art    Jirst. 


NEW  YORK. 


November  2d,  1862. 


SUNDAY. 

My  dear  little  Journal !   so  fresh,  white,  and  new, 
I  have  seated  myself  for  a  short  chat  with  you, 
And  to  tell  you  where  I  have  been  passing  the  eve, 
If  you  will  but  listen,  and  give  me  the  leave. 
Annie  called  here  to-night,  and  desired  me  to  go 
To  the  new  church  but  just  dedicated  ;  and  so 
I  donned  cloak  and  furs,  hat  and  boots  and  went  forth. 
'Twas  cold,  too !  the  wind  blew  direct  from  the  north, 
'Twas  but  a  short  distance,  we  soon  i-eached  the  place, 
And  passed  in  with  devout  hearts  and  reverent  pace. 
'Twas  lovely  !  but  I  am  too  weary,  to-night, 
To  describe  in  detail  all  the  music  and  light, 
Soft  carpets,  rich  carving,  the  Organ  so  grand, 


12  STOLEN  WATERS. 

The  tablets  containing  our  Lord's  ten  commands, 

And  all  that.     But  perhaps  I  may  some  other  time 

Describe  all  to  you,  even  to  the  bell's  chime. 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear  Journal,  my  thoughts 

In  vain  sought  to  rise  above  earth,  as  they  ought. 

I  seemed  to  be  dreaming,  or  under  a  spell, 

And  which  one  it  was  I  can  yet  hardly  tell ; 

For  a  mouth  wreathed  with  smiles  I  could  see  but  too  near, 

And  a  voice  full  of  melody  burst  on  my  ear ; 

For  he  sang  as  he  smiled,  and  his  dark,  lustrous  eyes, 

Seemed  reading  my  soul ;  and  I  found  with  surprise 

That  my  cheeks  burned  with  blushes,  my  eyes  sought  the 

ground, 
The  blood  rushed  through  my  veins  with  tumultuous  bound, 
Ev'ry thing  was  foi'gotten — time  also,  and  place; 
I  heard  but  one  voice,  and  I  saw  but  one  face. 
This  strange  fascination  continued  complete 
Till  the  service  was  over,  and  I  in  the  street, 
When  the  cool,  bracing  wind  fanned  my  feverish  cheek, 
Subdued  its  deep  flush,  and  unnatural  heat, 
And  calmly  the  blood  coursed  once  more  thro'  my  veins, 
And  I  my  own  stoical  self  soon  became. 
What  was  it  affected  me  thus,  there  to-night  ? 
I  have  heard  people  talking  of  "  Love  at  first  sight." 
Was  it  love  for  a  stranger  that  sent  such  a  thrill 
Through  my  frame,  'till  my  very  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  ? 
Was  it  love  for  a  stranger  ?     No  !  that  cannot  be  ; 
We  oft  hear  of  such  things,  but  who'd  think  it  of  me  ? 
I,  who  have  so  many  known — flirted  so  long, 
To  yield  now,  to  a  voice  I've  heard  only  in  song? 
Think  of  my  proud,  high  spirit  subdued  by  a  smile, 
A  glance  from  soft  eyes.     Call  it  consummate  guile, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  13 

Call  it  music's  enchantment,  the  pressure  of  light — 
Call  it  sorcery,  witchcraft,  or  aught  that  you  like, 
That  so  deeply  impressed  me  at  service  to-night, 
But  don't  say  I'm  in  love  with  a  man  at  first  sight ; 
I  hope  I  am  not  so  susceptible,  quite  ! 


February  15th,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Well,  my  father  at  length  has  engaged  a  nice  pew 
In  the  handsome  new  church  which  is  almost  in  view, 
And  henceforth,  I  suppose,  we  shall  worship  within 
Those  walls  that  were  never  polluted  by  sin. 
That  beautiful  temple,  so  rich,  yet  so  plain, 
With  large,  Gothic  windows  through  whose  di'mond  panes 
The  softened  light  streams  with  subdued,  mellow  ray, 
O'er  the  worshippers  therein  assembled  to  pray  ; 
The  walls  faintly  tinted,  but  unadorned  still 
By  the  chisel  of  sculptor  or  artist's  fine  skill ; 
The  seats  softly  cushioned  with  green,  and  the  floor 
With  carpets  like  Nature's  own  verdure  laid  o'er, 
The  pulpit  of  chestnut,  green-carpeted  stairs, 
Rich  books,  velvet  cushions,  and  sofa,  and  chairs, 
Just  below  it  the  table,  on  which  there  is  spread, 
On  the  first  of  each  month  the  wine  holy  and  bread, 
On  service  of  silver  ;  and  in  the  background 
Stands  their  beautiful  organ,  from  which  such  sweet  sounds 
Of  melody  float,  you  might  fancy,  almost, 
That  yo\i  were  surrounded  by  Heav'n's  shining  host, 


14  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  think  you  were  listening  to  harps  of  the  blest, 
Whose  strings  by  the  hands  of  bright  angels  are  pressed, 
So  rich,  so  sublime,  so  mellifluous,  sweet, 
Now  far  off,  low  and  faint,  and  then  nearer  and  deep, 
'Till  its  thunders  arouse  from  its  lethargic  sleep 
My  ravished,  entranced  soul.     Then,  at  the  right  hand, 
Gothic  tablets,  engraved  with  our  Lord's  ten  commands ; 
At  the  left  is  the  choir ;  a  small,  Gothic  alcove, 
Its  darkness  dispelled  by  dim  lights  from  above, 
While  in  the  background,  'graved  in  letters  of  gold, 
Are  extracts  from  the  Psalms  of  King  David  of  old. 
Our  seat's  near  the  choir — O  !  I  must  not  forget 
To  tell  you,  my  Journal,  the  choir's  a  quartette. 
Well !  in  that  lovely  place  we  have  worshipped  to-day, 
Arose  when  they  sang,  bowed  the  head  when  they  prayed. 
There  I  saw,  too,  a  face  I  had  seen  once  before, 
Heard  the  same  voice,  with  melody  sweet  gushing  o'er, 
Saw  the  lips,  too,  enwreathed  with  the  same  witching  smile, 
The  eyes,  merry  glances  thrown  downward  the  while. 
But  his  glances  and  smiles  were  all  powerless,  to-day, 
I  looked  at  him  coldly,  turned  calmly  away, 
My  heart  beat  no  faster,  no  flush  dyed  my  cheek, 
But  his  voice  ! — oh,  it  was,  indeed,  wondrously  sweet, 
And  I  eagerly  listened,  as  under  a  spell 
.  As  each  note  on  my  ravished  ear  then  rose  and  fell. 
The  singers  were  all  good,  but  he  was  sublime. 
But  'twas  the  soft  witch'ry  of  music,  this  time  : 
The  charm  which  e'er  dwells  in  harmonious  sound, 
Not  love  for  the  man  which  now  held  me  spell -bound. 
Indeed  !  as  to-day  I  looked  into  his  eyes, 
I  could  not  but  think  with  a  wondering  surprise 
Of  the  spell  he  cast  over  me,  when  our  eyes  met 


STOLEN  WATERS.  15 


• 


A  few  weeks  ago,  for  the  first  time  ;  and  yet, 

It  loas  passing  strange  what  o'ercame  me  that  night, 

Unless  'twas  the  heat  and  the  strong  press  of  light. 

Whatever  it  was,  I  am  firmly  convinced 

lie  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it !     And,  since 

It  was  not  what  I  feared  that  it  might  be,  that  night, 

I  will  have  no  more  faith  in  this  "  love  at  first  sight." 


March  1st,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

When  I  drew  up  the  blind,  somewhat  early  this  morn, 
I  found  there  had  been  quite  a  heavy  snow-storm, 
And  when  it  was  church  time,  I  hardly  could  tell 
If  'twas  best  to  go  out  or  to  stay  at  home.     Well ! 
Did  not  much  like  remaining  within  doors,  all  day, 
So  I  donned  rubber-boots,  and  we  started  away ; 
And  when  we  soon  after  arrived  at  the  church 
Mr.  Tenor  was  standing  right  there  in  the  porch. 
His  glances  at  me  were  quite  earnest,  and  I 
Looked  closely  at  him,  too,  while  passing  him  by. 
So  you  see,  my  dear  Journal,  I  had  a  fair  view 
Of  this  wonderful  (?)  man,  and  tins  fine  singer,  too. 
I  suppose  you  would  like  a  description  of  him, 
I  have  told  you  so  much  of  him.     Well !  to  begin, 
He  was  not  very  formidable  after  all ! 
He  is  neither  quite  short,  nor  is  he  very  tall. 
His  shoulders  are  wide,  and  you'd  feel  you  could  rest 
Safe  sheltered  from  harm  on  his  broad,  manly  breast. 


16  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Dark  hair,  soft,  dark  eyes,  and  a  mouth  passing  sweet, 

Soft  mustaches  and  whiskers  shade  both  lip  and  cheek. 

Hands  white  and  well -shaped,  moderately  small  feet, 

You  have  now,  my  Journal,  his  picture  complete. 

Now  if  this  noble  gentleman  only  just  knew 

What  a  flatt'ring  description  I've  given  to  you, 

Of  his  exquisite  singing,  his  fine  manly  grace, 

His  smiles  and  his  glances,  his  form  and  his  face, 

What  would  he  say  to  it  ?     But  that  ne'er  will  be  ! 

I  can  say  what  I  please,  my  dear  Journal,  to  "  thee," 

Tell  you  all  of  my  secrets,  and  ne'er  have  a  fear 

That  you'll  ever  disclose  aught  that  I  whisper  here 

But,  dear  me  !  what  a  soft  little  goosey  I  am, 

To  be  thinking  so  much  of  a  quite  unknown  man  ! 

But  I  told  you  about  him,  upon  that  first  night 

When  I  "  fell  in  love  (?)"  with  him,  you  know,  at  first  sight ; 

I  mean,  therefore,  to  tell  you  henceforth  all  I  know 

Of  him  who's  of  late  interested  me  so. 

But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  perhaps  I've  over-drawn 

My  fair  pictm-e  of  him  ;  for  a  calm  looker-on 

Might  not,  perhaps,  call  strictly  handsome  his  face  ; 

But  his  smile,  and  his  grand,  indescribable  grace, 

Which  once  made  me  forgetful  of  both  time  and  place, 

Are  more  charming  by  far  than  mere  beauty  of  face. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  17 


March  22  J,  18G3. 

SUNDAY. 

Well !  another  brief  week  lias  passed  swiftly  along, 
And  another  sweet  Sabbath  is  now  nearly  gone. 
And  to  service  of  course  I  again  went  to-day — 
'Twould  take  strong  inducements  to  keep  me  away, 
For  a  Sunday  at  home  I  can  never  endure — 
A  stormy  one  even — and  so  I  am  sure 
There's  nothing  that  scarcely  could  tempt  me  to  stay 
From  church  upon  such  a  magnificent  day 
As  this  one  has  been.     It  toas  lovely  as  one 
Could  desire  to  behold  ;  for  the  glorious  sun, 
In  unrivalled  splendor,  shone  all  the  day  through  ; 
The  sky  was  one  vast  arch  of  unclouded  blue  ; 
Each  twig,  bush,  and  tree  were  a-glitter  with  ice, 
And  the  pavement  as  well,  which  was  not  quite  so  nice, 
For  many  unlucky  pedestrians  met 
A  fall  on  the  sidewalk  so  slipp'ry  and  wet. 
The  new-fallen  snow,  with  a  pure,  dazzling  sheet 
Of  white,  covered  tree-top,  and  house-top,  and  street ; 
And  sleigh  after  sleigh-load  dashed  swiftly  along, 
And  before  one  could  fairly  behold  them,  were  gone ; 
And  the  tinkle  of  bells  on  the  listening  ear, 
Fell  with  musical  murmur  so  merry  and  clear.  * 
The  whole  scene  was  charming !  but  soon  we  passed  in 
From  the  splendor  without  to  the  beauty  within. 
Already,  the  organ's  deep,  exquisite  notes, 
All  through  the  vast  edifice  solemnly  floats. 


18  STOLEN  WATERS. 

The  whole  congregation  is  silent  as  death, 

And  I  listen  entranced,  and  almost  catch  my  breath, 

As  the  tones  of  the  singers,  so  thrillingly  sweet, 

Join  the  organ's,  and  render  the  charm  quite  complete. 

What,  think  you,  cared  I  then  that  a  bright  smiling  face 

Was  beaming  on  me  from  the  usual  place, 

And  a  pair  of  soft  eyes  looking  into  my  own  ? 

I  saw  nothing,  heard  naught  but  the  musical  tones 

Of  the  voices  I've  learned  to,  of  late,  love  so  well, 

And  that  ever  bewitch  me  more  than  I  can  tell. 

But  when  next  they  arose  the  enchantment  was  o'er, 

And.  I  then  could  look  into  his  fine  face  once  more  ; 

But  he  so  intently  gazed  into  my  eyes, 

That,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  could  feel  the  blood  rise 

To  my  face,  and  I  knew  he  had  found  he  could  call 

A  warm  flush  to  my  cheek,  notwithstanding,  too,  all 

My  cold  looks,  and  his  glances  indiff'rently  met, 

And  the  smiles  that  are  haunting  me,  too,  even  yet. 


July  hth,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Well !  yesterday  was  the  grand  "  Fourth  of  July," 
Our  national  holiday.     Gertrude  and  I 
Went  out  to  my  brother's,  and  spent  the  whole  day 
In  the  cool,  verdant  country,  so  quiet ;  away 
From  the  heat  of  the  city,  the  dust  and  the  din 
Which  prevails  from  the  time  that  the  "  Fourth's  "  ushered  in, 
By  the  booming  salute  in  the  sweet  early  morn, 
'Till  the  hour  of  midnight  proclaims  the  day  gone. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  19 

We  passed  the  day  quietly,  pleasantly,  then 

At  evening  came  back  to  the  city  again. 

I  felt  this  a.m.  just  a  little  fatigued, 

But  to  church  went  as  usual,  my  "  Unknown"  to  see. 

I  saw  him,  and  the  smiles,  too,  that  brightened  his  face, 

As  I  my  seat  took  in  the  usual  place. 

Oh,  dear  !  I  would  much  like  to  know  what's  his  name, 

But  yet,  what  is  the  use  ?  'Tis  of  course  all  the  same, 

The  gentleman  nothing  at  all  is  to  me, 

And  what  is  more  still,  never  will,  or  can  be. 

I  presume,  did  I  know  him  quite  intimately, 

I'd  think  no  more  of  him  than  of  others  I  see  ; 

'Tis  the  myst'ry  that  charms  me,  and  if  that  was  o'er 

I'm  convinced  I  should  think  of  the  man  never  more, 

I  know  'tis  a  mere  passing  fancy,  and  yet 

It  seems  to  be  one  I'm  not  like  to  forget, 

At  least  very  soon, — while  I  sit  in  the  seat 

Which  I  now  do  in  church. 

'Twould  be  gladness  complete, 
It  sometimes  seems  to  me,  if  I  only  could  rest 
For  one  single  moment  upon  his  broad  breast, 
Could  but  around  me  have  the  clasp  of  his  arm, 
And  know  that  he'd  shield  me  from  every  harm. 
But  what  am  I  thinking  of?     How  could  I  write 
Such  words  as  these  Tve  written  herein  to-night  ? 
Yet  I  read  in  a  fine  modern  author,  to-day, 
"  There  is  not  a  true  tooman  but  what  longs  to  lay 
Her  head  on  the  fond  loving  breast  of  a  man, 
And  see  in  his  eyes  the  one  look  that  he  can 
Give  to  no  one  else  in  the  whole  world."     And  so,  why, 
If  the  man  truth  was  speaking,  oh  !  then,  why  should  I, 


20  STOLEN  WATMiS: 

As  I  sit  here  this  evening,  in  silence,  alone? 

Hesitate  to  write  what  not  an  eye  but  my  own 

Does  now  or  will  ever  behold  ?     Why,  I  say, 

If  that  be  the  case,;  should  I  blush  to  obey 

The  wise  laws  of  nature,  which  prove  me  to  be 

A  true  woman  according  to  his  theory  ? 

But  I'm  weary,  and  sleepy  as  well ;  and  the  light 

Flickers  so  that  I  scarcely  can  see  now  to  write. 

The  gas  must  be  poor  t — Well !  I'm  thro'  for  to-night. 


August  Wi,  2863„ 

StTNDAY. 

How  swiftly,  indeed,  time  does  hasten  along  I 
Two  whole  months  of  summer  are  already  gone, 
The  middle  of  August  is  now  very  near, 
And  ere  we're  aware  of  it,  winter'll  be  here. 
But  yet,  notwithstanding  time  passes  away 
So  exceedingly  fast,  and  that  day  follows  day 
In  such  rapid  succession  that  one  hardly  leaves 
Their  bed  in  the  morn  ere  it  comes  dewy  eve, 
Yet  the  same  old  story  'tis  over  and  o'er, 
The  same  weary  routine  gone  through  with  once  more, 
The  same  dull  monotony  day  after  day ; 
Now  a  trifle  of  work,  then  a  small  bit  of  play, 
A  book  that's  absorbing,  a  brilliant  day-dream, 
Or  a  bright,  flashing  ray  from  hope's  glittering  beam, 
A  walk  now  and  then  on  a  clear  moonlight  night, 
A  letter  received,  or  perchance  one  to  write  ; 


STOLEN  WATERS.  21 

A  call  from  a  friend,  or  a  brief  visit  paid, 

An  engagement  fulfilled,  or  some  promises  made, 

Sometimes  a  fine  drive,  an  occasional  song, 

And  thus,  tlie  long,  warm,  summer  days  pass  along. 

I  am  heartily  tired  of  these  trivial  things  i 

I  would  like  a  change,  now,  whatever  it  "brings  ; 

Something  wonderful,  startling,  or  thrillingly  strange, 

Something  new,  something  grand,  anything  for  a  change  I 

I  almost  had  said  I  would  rather  it  be 

Even  grief  than  this  sameness  so  irksome  to  me. 

It  is  true  we  receive  startling  news  every  day 

From  the  army,  but  that's  such  a  distance  away, 

And  no  one  is  out  there  for  whom  aught  I  care, 

With  exception,  it  may  be,  of  Colonel  Allair. 

Nor  do  I  know  why  I  should  care  for  him  much, 

Though  I  think  him  a  friend,  and  I  like  him  as  such ; 

But  then  my  acquaintance  with  him  was  but  slight, 

And  yet  I  did  think  he  would  certainly  write. 

He  did  not,  'tis  true,  say  he  would,  but  I  thought 

He  intended  to  do  so,  but  that  matters  not; 

I  was  thinking,  perhaps,  that  it  possibly  might 

Have  been  some  variation,  although  it  were  slight, 

To  the  usual  round  that  of  late  marks  each  day. 

But  there,  let  him  pass !    I  have  something  to  say 

About  the  events  of  the  day  nearly  gone. 

I  went  out  to  service  as  usual  this  morn, 
But  not  as  in  general  saw  I  the  face 
Of  my  charming  "  unknown  "  in  his  usual  place; 
For  a  stranger,  to-day,  occupied  his  old  seat 
In  the  choir,  and  thus  rendered  their  number  complete. 


22  STOLEN  WATER8. 

Mr.  S.  gave  to  us  a  war-sermon  this  morn, 
Which  I  of  course  listened  to  only  with  scorn. 
I  cannot  at  any  time  hardly  submit 
Under  one  of  his  ultra  war-sermons  to  sit, 
But  think  I  was  annoyed  and  disgusted  still  more 
This  morning  than  ever  I  have  been  before. 
The  discourse  provoked  me,  was  tediously  long ; 
The  music  was  harsh,  and  there  seemed  something  wrong, 
Something  wanting,  in  all  of  the  service  to-day, 
But  what  it  might  be  I  pretend  not  to  say, 
And  I  only  can  tell  that,  as  over  and  o'er 
I  turned  toward  the  choir,  that  I  missed  indeed  more 
Than  I  like  to  acknowledge,  I  think,  e'en,  to  you, 
My  dear  Journal,  a  face  that  I've  been  wont  to  view, 
A  voice  I  have  listened  to  gushing  in  song, 
And  smiles  that  have  beamed  on  me  now  for  so  long. 
I  wonder  where  he  could  have  been  all  to-day, 
And  what  could  have  kept  him  from  service  away. 
By  the  way,  my  dear  Journal,  I'll  say  in  this  place, 
That  I  heard  a  few  days  since  his  last  name  was  "  Chase,'* 
And  that  'tis  his  intent  to  be  married  soon,  too, 
And  then  I  should  like  to  know  what  I'm  to  do ! 
For  she  will  get  all  of  his  smiles  if  she's  there, 
And  he  will  for  me,  then,  have  not  one  to  spare. 
Such  a  fate  would  be  terrible (?).     And,  by  the  way, 
Perhaps  that  is  why  he  was  absent  to-day, 
And  when  next  I  see  him,  perchance  by  his  side 
I  shall  then  see  a  beautiful,  sweet,  "  blushing  bride." 
But  there !  I  should  really  like  to  know  who 
The  "  fair  ladye  "  may  be  if  the  story  is  true. 
And  I  wonder  if  he  will  then  give  up  his  place 
In  the  choir,  if  that  should  be  the  state  of  the  case. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  23 

I  hope  not ;  I  do  not  believe  they  will  find 
His  peer  very  soon,  not,  at  least,  to  my  mind. 
Perhaps,  though,  that  I  may  be  partial  somewhat; 
But  then,  who  that  ever  has  heard  him  is  not ! 
By  all  I  believe  he's  acknowledged  to  be 
"  Ne  plus  ultra  "  in  singing,  at  least !     But,  dear  me ! 
I  am  too  tired  to  think,  and  I'm  too  tired  to  write, 
And  presume  I  have  said  quite  enough  for  to-night. 


August  23d,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

I  have  not  been  to  church  since  the  last  time  I  wrote, 
But  have  had  of  the  service  each  day  a  report, 
And  each  Sabbath  they've  politics  had  o'er  and  o'er ; 
And  I  thought  I  would  not  go  to  church  any  more 
Until  there's  a  change,  for  I  cannot  endure 
Politics  in  the  pulpit,  and  think,  I  am  sure, 
We  hear  quite  enough  of  them  during  the  week, 
Without  going  to  church  and  there  hear  a  man  speak 
Of  nothing  at  all  beside  slavery  and  war. 
Now,  I  do  not  believe  but  that  JTdo  abhor 
The  system  of  slavery  as  much  as  does  he, 
Am  just  as  desirous  the  slaves  should  be  free. 
But  I  own  I  don't  think  that  the  end  justifies 
The  means ;  nor  to  me  does  it  seem  hardly  wise 
Our  country  to  plunge  into  this  civil  war — 
Which  every  nation  should  always  abhor — 
And  our  fair  land  to  cover  with  unnumbered  graves. 
For  the  possible  issue  of  freeing  the  slaves. 


24:  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  think  that  if  there  had  been  made  a  decree 

That  every  child  henceforth  bom  should  be  free 

That  it  better,  far  better  would  been  in  the  end, 

For  all  would,  of  course,  educated  been,  then, 

For  freedom ;  been  qualified  thereby  to  do 

Their  share  in  this  life's  hard,  stem  battle.     And,  too, 

In  a  few  fleeting  years  slavery  would  have  been  o'er, 

And   the  "  cry  of  the   oppressed "  would  be   heard   never 

more — 
All  chains  would  be  broken,  all  slaves  would  be  free. 
And  then,  too,  how  many  fond  hearts  there  will  be  . 
Left  sad,  and  how  desolate !     I  don't  pretend 
To  be  so  patriotic.     I  never  would  send 
Any  dear  friend  of  mine,  to  lose  limb,  perhaps  life, 
In  this  fratricide  war,  in  this  unholy  strife. 
I  am  not  patriotic  enough,  yet,  to  bind 
The  sword  to  the  side  of  a  loved  friend  of  mine, 
And  to  bid  him  "  God  speed,"  with  a  clear,  tearless  eye ; 
Bid  him  go  forth  to  battle,  perchance,  too,  to  die, 
All  alone  and  forlorn,  with  not  one  dear  friend  nigh 
To  catch  the  last  word,  or  last,  tremulous  sigh ; 
Or,  in  a  rude  hospital,  sick  and  unfriended, 
To  lie  moaning  with  pain,  yet  unwatched  and  untended  j 
Or  what  would  be  worse  still,  in  prison  to  be, 
Unfed  and  unclothed,  sick  for  sweet  liberty. 
Had  this  cruel  war  been  with  some  other  nation, 
We  could  have  endured  our  fair  land's  desolation — 
Our  broken  home-circles,  our  firesides  so  drear, 
The  hush  of  the  voices  that  once  were  so  dear. 
So  fearfully  hard  it  would  not  be  to  see 

Our  loved  ones  torn  from  us.     Yes,  it  would,  indeed, 

v 

s 


STOLEN  WATERS.  25 

Be  different  far  if  'twas  strife  with  another 

Land  or  power ;  but  brothers  against  their  own  brothers ! 

'Tis  too  horrid  to  think  of,  or  speak  of,  or  write  ! 

And  I  think,  too,  that  I  have  already  said  quite 

Enough  on  the  subject ;  I  did  not  intend 

To  do  the  same  thing  which  I  just  now  condemned, 

And  preach  a  "  war-sermon,"  my  Journal,  to  you. 

And  perhaps,  j  ust  as  ultra  this  one  has  been,  too, 

As  those  Mr.  S.  writes,  which  I  can't  endure. 

But  I'm  not  in  the  pulpit,  and  I  am  assured 

That  my  congregation  is  not  a  mixed  one, 

So  I  think  there  is  not  any  great  mischief  done. 

It  has  been  pretty  stormy  the  whole  day,  and  so 
I  did  not  this  morn  go  to  church  ;  and  although 
I  expected,  as  usual,  they'd  have  war  to-day, 
And  that  our  Mr.  Tenor  remained  yet  away, 
I  was  somewhat  mistaken  on  both  points,  I  find, 
For  the  sermon  this  morn  was  exceedingly  fine — 
Father  told  me  (he  went  out  this  morning  alone), 
And  the  music  of  course  was,  because  "  my  Unknown" 
His  usual  seat  in  the  choir  filled  this  morn  ; 
And  of  course  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  gone. 
I  would  like  to  see  him,  and  find  out  if  I  can, 
If  of  him  I  must  think  as  a  lost,  married  man. 
And  I  might  have  been  able  to  tell  if  I'd  gone 
To  church.     But,  it's  being  so  stormy  this  morn, 
She  would  not  have  been  out  very  probably,  so 
I  presume  it's  as  well  now  that  I  did  not  go. 
But  I  would  like  to  know  if  he's  married  or  not — 
I,  indeed,  scarcely  think  that  he  is.     I  forgot 
2 


26  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  I  had  the  gentleman's  name  ascertained  j 
I  should  call  him  by  it.     Yet  it's  all  the  same  f 
To  me  he's  the  "  Unknown,"  beside,  I'm  not  quite 
Assured  that  the  name  to  me  given  was  right. 

As  father  thought  he  would  go  down  town  to-night, 
And  as  it  was  stormy,  and  dark,  too,  about 
Half-past  seven,  to  service  none  of  us  went  out. 
But  next  Sunday  morning,  I  think  I  shall  go. 
And  try  to  find  out  if  he's  married  or  no  ; 
And  then,  my  dear  Journal,  I'll  let  you  know,  too, 
And  until  then  I  think  I  must  bid  you  adieu. 


September  9tfi,  18G3. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Again  over  two  weeks  have  flown  swiftly  past, 
And  two  Sabbaths  have  flitted  by  since  I  wrote  last. 
I  service  attended  two  Sundays  ago, 
And  saw  Mr.  Tenor,  but  still  do  not  know 
Any  better,  in  fact,  than  I  did  the  last  time 
I  wrote  of  him  here  in  this  journal  of  mine, 
If  he's  married  or  not;  I  indeed  only  know 
That  as  usual  he  sat  in  the  choir  ;  know,  also, 
That  no  lady  was  with  him  that  morning,  and,  too, 
He  looked  and  appeared  just  as  he  used  to  do. 
I  might,  therefore,  as  well  still  believe  him  to  be, 
Until  I  know  better,  "  heart-whole,  fancy-free  !  " 


STOLEN  WATERS.  27 

* 

I  went  out  to  Tarrytown  last  Saturday, 
Remaining  'till  Monday,  and  so  was  away 
From  service  on  last  Sunday  morn.     Nothing  new 
Has  occurred  since  that  time.    Yes,  indeed  !  there  has,  too  ! 
The  carrier  called  yesterday  afternoon, 
My  Journal,  and  brought  me  a  letter ;  from  whom 
I  could  not  imagine  at  first,  as  the  hand 
Was  quite  unfamiliar  ;  but  when  I   began 
A  perusal  of  ifc,  and  had  looked  to  see  where 
It  was  dated,  inferred  'twas  from  Colonel  Allair ; 
And,  on  turning  to  look  for  the  name  at  the  close, 
I  found  it  to  be  just  as.  I  had  supposed. 
'Twas  indeed  a  nice  letter,  but  only  just  such 
As  I  knew  he  would  write,  and  it  did  please  me  much. 
'Twas  dated  at  Vicksburg,  the  twentieth  day 
Of  last  month  ;  and  informed  me  that  he'd  been  away 
On  service  detached,  for  some  little  time  past ; 
But  had  now  been  sent  back  to  the  army,  at  last. 
That  at  the  surrender  of  V.  he  was  there  ; 
But  on  the  day  following,  Colonel  Allair 
Was  detailed  to  convey  to  his  far  Western  home 
The  mortal  remains  of  a  friend  of  his  own, 
His  regiment's  Major.     And  that  was  why  he 
Had  postponed  for  so  long,  this,  his  letter  to  me. 
But  hoped  I'd  excuse  his  unwilling  delay, 
And  very  soon  write  him  a  few  lines  to  say 
He  still  might  regard  me  a  friend.     That  'twas  not 
Because  for  a  moment  that  me  he  fonrot. 
But  feared  that  ere  this  I'd  ceased  thinking  of  him. 
But  hoped  not,  and  trusted,  though  that  might  have  been 
The  case  before  now,  this  would  serve  to  remind 
Me  sufficiently  of  him  to  send  him  a  line. 


28  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  said  to  him  once,  I  was  fearful  that  we 
On  certain  points  possibly  might  disagree. 
So  he  writes : 

"  My  dear  friend,  why  suppose  that  we  do  ? 
I  do  not  imagine  we'd  quarrel,  do  you  ? 
I  believe,  certainly,  every  one  has  a  right 
Their  own  free  opinions  to  hold.     Though  they  might 
Differ  widely  from  others,  I  never  should  thiuk 
That  they  much  moral  courage  possessed,  should  they  shrink 
From  freely  expressing  the  same.     And  although 
I  am  likely  to  say  what  I  think,  am  also 
Willing  others  should  do  just  the  same.     So  think  we 
Shall  not,  my  dear  friend,  very  much  disagree." 
Then  in  speaking  soon  after  of  what  he  well  knew 
To  be  my  opinions  on  war  and  peace,  too, 
He  says : 

"  I  imagine,  from  what  you  have  said, 
That  your  '  love  of  union  '  is  too  limited. 
I  think  that,  if  I  understand  you  aright, 
That  your  love  of  union  must  ever  be  quite 
In  abeyance  unto  your  wishes  for  peace, 
To  your  earnest  desire  that  the  war  should  soon  cease. 
Now  my  love  of  '  union  with  peace '  is  strong,  too, 
But  when  it  is  necessary  to  subdue 
Rebellions  like  this,  I  say,  '  union  with  war.' 
But  there  are  more  unions  that  I've  a  love  for. 
*  A  union  of  States,  and  a  union  of  lands, 
A  union  of  hearts,  and  a  union  of  hands.' 
And  a  union  of  man  to  the  woman  he  loves, 
Providing,  of  course,  that  both  parties  approve." 
Then  he  adds  farther  down, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  29 

"  But  I  yet  do  not  know, 
Of  the  passion  of  love,  anything  at  all !     So, 
If  any  peculiar  sensations  are  felt, 
I  own  I  am  ignorant  of  their  effect ; 
Nor  do  I  intend,  now,  to  make  any  such 
Proposals  to  you,  unless  I  very  much 

Change  my  mind  on  the  subject.     But  hope  now  and  then, 
For  some  flashes  of  wit  from  your  bright,  lively  pen, 
That,  for  sweet  friendship's  sake,  you'll  sometimes  send  to  me 
A  few  Hues,  the  monotony  thus  to  relieve 
Of  my  dreary  war-path  ;  and  as  far,  too,  as  lies 
In  my  power  to  do  so,  I  ever  shall  try 
To  render  it  pleasant  to  you." 

That's  about 
All  he  wrote !     But  my  light  is  so  fast  going  out, 
I  must  shut  up  my  book,  I  suppose,  for  this  time, 
And  go  down-stairs.     But,  hark !  the  bell's  ringing  for  nine, 
So  the  gas  in  my  dressing-room  think  I  will  light, 
Bead  an  hour  or  two,  and  not  go  down  to-night. 


September  27th,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

My  dear  little  Journal !  I  come  here  once  more, 
To  have  a  nice  chat,  as  so  often  before 
"We've  chatted  together  in  this  tiny  room, 
At  sunrise,  at  sunset,  at  midnight,  and  noon. 
Under  all  circumstances  as  well  as  all  times, 
Bight  here,  in  this  little  dear  "  Sanctum  "  of  mine, 


30  STOLEN  WATERS. 

This  place  all  so  quiet,  where  no  one  intrudes, 

The  spot  where  I  always  may  find  solitude, 

1  sit  here  when  the  morning  sun's  glorious  beams 

Through  the  deep,  arching  window  so  dazzlingly  streams, 

And  gilds  with  a  radiance  almost  sublime 

Every,  object  in  this  dear  apartment  of  mine — 

The  easy-chair  here  in  this  curtained  recess, 

The  table  beside  it  with  wide-open  desk, 

The  papers,  engravings,  and  late  magazines, 

And  touches  again  with  its  radiant  beams 

Every  favorite  book  in  the  cases,  and  all 

The  familiar  dear  pictures  which  hang  on  the  wall. 

I  love  the  spot,  then.     When  the  deep  glowing  noon 

Makes  oppressive  the  heat,  then  I  come  to  this  room, 

And  I  draw  clown  the  curtains  to  soften  the  light, 

If  a  book  I've  to  read,  or  have  letters  to  write. 

Then  I  love  to  sit  here  when  the  gathering  twilight 

Proclaims  day  is  rapidly  yielding  to  night, 

Watch  the  swift-fading  hues  of  the  far  sunset  sky, 

The  stars  glimmer  out  in  the  blue  vault  on  high, 

And  trying  to  count  them,  as  fast,  one  by  one, 

They  dot  the  wide  circle  of  Heaven's  arching  dome. 

Then  I  love  to  come  here  in  the  night's  silent  noon, 

When  from  high,  spangled  throne  the  fair,  pale  "  lady  Moon" 

Serenely  looks  down  on  the  still,  sleeping  world, 

With  its  armies  at  rest,  and  its  banners  all  furled, 

Its  doors  barred,  windows  blinded,  and  storehouses  closed, 

And  everything  sleeping  in  perfect  repose. 

But  though  on  the  world  she  looks  coldly,  and  me, 

She  floods  with  pure  silver  each  leaf,  bud,  and  tree, 

And  my  "  Sanctum  "  she  fills  with  a  weird,  mystic  light. 

Oh,  who  can  help  loving  a  clear,  moonlight  night  ? 


■STOLEN  WATERS.  31 

Then  I  sit  in  the  window  and  rear  in  the  air 

Castles  gorgeously  grand,  and  surpassingly  Mr  ! 

And  give  myself  up  for  the  time  to  bright  dreams, 

And  imagine  that  all  things  are  just  what  they  seem  ; 

That  all  that  doth  glitter  is  pure,  unalloyed  gold, 

That  the  world  is  not  heartless,  and  cruel,  and  cold, 

That  friends  never  are  false,  nor  our  loved  ones  untrue, 

No  lost  hopes  to  mourn,  and  no  errors  to  rue, 

That  all  is  sweet  harmony,  purity,  love, 

No  sorrow  below,  and  no  dark  clouds  above. 

But  when  wishing  to  sleep,  give  me  then  a  dark  room, 

No  gas-light,  no  star-light,  no  light  of  the  moon, 

Let  the  curtain  droop  low,  and  draw  down  the  blind  tight, 

And  bid  to  things  earthly  a  silent  good-night. 

Well !  my  brother  each  Saturday's  been  up  for  me 
To  go  for  the  Sabbath  with  him  up  to  T. 
Since  the  last  time  I  wrote,  and  of  course,  too,  I  went — 
I  had  no  excuse,  there  was  naught  to  prevent, 
And  so  I  have  not  been  to  church  'till  to-day, 
Although  I  disliked  much  remaining  away. 
And  it  did  seem  so  pleasant  to  be  there  once  more, 
And  to  hear  the  grand  organ's  exquisite  notes  pour 
All  through  the  vast  temple,  and  hear  once  again 
The  tones  of  the  choir  with  the  organ's  notes  blend. 
'Twas  nice,  just  to  sit  in  my  usual  place, 
And  see  there  above  me  the  same  smiling  face. 
I  went  out  to  service  this  eve,  too,  again, 
It  is  so  pleasant  there  in  the  evening ;  and  then 
I  like  my  "  Unknown  "  to  observe  best  at  night, 
Though  he  looks  quite  as  well  by  day  as  by  gas-light. 


32  STOLEN  WATERS. 

He's  splendid  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times  ; 

And  I  do  like  him  ever  so  much,  too,  in  fine  J 

By  the  way,  I  believe  I  at  last  have  found  out 

His  name ;  and  this  time,  too,  without  any  doubt. 

I  never,  in  fact,  believed  really  yet 

My  former  intelligence  very  correct 

In  regard  to  the  matter ;  nor  could  I  have  called 

Him  by  that ;  but  his  name  is  not  pretty  at  all, 

The  first  or  the  last ;  but  T  think  I'll  not  tell 

You,  my  Journal,  what  'tis — think  'twill  be  just  as  well 

That  you  should  not  know  it.     Suffice  it  to  say 

That  his  first  name  is  "  John,"  and  a  name,  by  the  way. 

That  I  never  did  like ;  although  'tis,  it  is  true, 

Quite  a  family  name  with  us.     Then  I  have,  too, 

More  friends  by  that  name  than  by  any  beside, 

Its  Colonel  Allair's,  too  !     My  Journal,  good-night. 


November  M,  1863. 

TUESDAY. 

To-day  is  my  birth-day  !     I'm  nineteen  to-day, 
Can  another  whole  year  have  so  soon  slipped  away  ? 
And  can  it  be  possible  that  I  have  seen 
Of  girlhood's  sweet  birthdays  the  last  in  my  teens  ? 
It  seems,  when  I  look  back,,  almost  like  a  dream, 
The  years  that  have  passed  since  I  entered  my  teens, 
And  thought  it  would  seem  such  a  very  long  time 
Before  I  was  out  of  them  !     But,  Journal  mine, 
The  long  years  have  flown  very  quickly  away, 
And  my  nineteenth  birthday  I  welcome  to-day. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  33 

The  weather  to-day  rather  stormy  has  heen, 
But  cleared  off  quite  pleasant  before  evening; 
The  sun  sank  to  rest  in  the  beautiful  west, 
In  his  rich-tinted  robes  just  as  gorgeously  dressed, 
As  if  he'd  not  hidden  almost  the  whole  day 
His  glorious  head  behind  dark  clouds  of  gray, 
And  only  emerged  for  a  parting  good-night 
Ere  leaving  our  world  with  his  life-giving  light. 
Well !  as  it  had  cleared  off  so  wondrously  fair, 
I  thought  I'd  go  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
And  so,  dressing,  I  went  down  to  Ed  Vamey's  store, 
For  some  pond-lily,  pens,  one  or  two  trifles  more. 
He  seemed,  as  in  general,  glad  to  see  me. 
What  a  singular  man  he  to  me  seems  to  be ! 
Like  Lord  Byron's  "  bird  with  cerulean  wings,"  ■ 
Whose  song  ever  "  seemed  saying  a  thousand  sweet  things," 
So  his  eyes  and  his  tones  do  speak  volumes  sometimes, 
As  he  touches  my  hand,  or  his  glances  meet  mine. 
His  every  word  is  almost  a  caress, 
And  his  manner,  in  truth,  seems  at  times  scarcely  less. 
He's  a  rather  fine-looking  man,  and — let  me  see  ! 
His  age  I  should  think  is  about  thirty-three. 
I  wonder  sometimes  if  he  seems  just  the  same 
To  all  lady  friends,  or  e'en  some  I  could  name ; 
I  presume  that  he  does,  though,  but  such  looks  and  tones 
I  could  give  to  no  one  I've  as  yet  ever  known, 
And  though  I'm  disposed  very  often  to  flirt 
He  seems  too  much  in  earnest,  and  fear  I  might  hurt 
His  feelings  far  more  than  I'd  gratify  mine, 
And  for  such  a  flirtation  I  now  have  no  time. 
With  letters  so  often  from  Colonel  Allair, 
And  my  "  Unknown  "  to  think  about,  too,  do  not  caro 
2* 


34  STOLEN  WATERS, 

Another  flirtation  just  now  to  begin, 

At  least  with  Ed  Vauiey.     Enough,  though,  of  him  ! 

Let  him  pass  for  the  present. 

And,  oh,  by  the  way, 
I  learned  the  address  of  "  my  Unknown  "  to-day, 
His  residence,  his  place  of  business,  and  all ! 
Next  time  I  go  down  town  I  think  I  will  call 
At  the  store ;  and  if  he  should  then  chance  to  be  in, 
And  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  see  him, 
I  shall  know  I  am  right ;  then  I'll  send  him  a  note. 
Just  the  sweetest  one  also  that  I  ever  wrote. 

And  now,  as  the  hours  are  fast  taking  their  flight, 
My  birth-day  I'll  bid  a  regretful  good-night ! 


November  9th,  1863. 

MONDAY. 

I  of  course  went  to  church  morn  and  eve,  yesterday, 
It  has  been  quite  a  time  now,  since  I've  staid  away. 
Saw  my  charming  "  Unknown,"  and  I  heard  once  again 
His  exquisite  voice  in  the  solemn  refrain, 
And  met  the  soft  glance  of  his  splendid  dark  eye, 
And  saw  the  same  smile,  as  in  days  now  gone  by, 
Such  "  perilous  glances,"  "  bewildering  smiles," 
I  very  much  fear  this  poor  heart  will  beguile, 
'Till  I  yield  me  a  captive  to  love's  rosy  hand, 
While  he  binds  me  qiiite  fast  with  his  glittering  band, 
And  unlike  "  Ellen  Douglass  "  and  "  Malcolm  Graeme," 
Sis  hand  '11  hold  the  clasp,  while  my  neck  wears  the  chain ! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  35 

"Went  down  town  this  p.m.  my  friend  Annie,  and  I. 
So  I  stopped  in  the  store  as  I  chanced  to  pass  by  ; 
I  purchased  a  magazine,  at  the  same  time 
Looking  'round  for  the  owner,  that  "  Unknown  "  of  mine. 
And  I  looked  not  in  vain  !  for,  apart  from  the  rest, 
He  sat,  calm,  serene,  at  a  low  private  desk 
Swiftly  writing — oh,  would  that  it  had  been  to  me 
He  was  tracing  those  lines,  graceful,  careless,  and  free, 
Intent  on  his  task,  never  once  raised  his  head, 
Nor  while  I  was  in  there  a  single  word  said. 
He  did  look  so  handsome,  so  splendid,  so  grand, 
Sublimely  unconscious,  that  so  near  at  hand 
Was  a  girl  just  sufficiently  foolish  to  let 
His  mild,  handsome  face  haunt  her  thoughts  even  yet. 

But  enough !  let  him  pass  !  I  have  seen  him,  and  when 
I  get  ready  a  note  I  will  send  him,  and  then 
Perhaps  he  will  sit  in  the  very  same  place, 
And  over  my  letter  bend  his  handsome  face. 


November  15th,  18G3. 

SUNDAY. 

The  last  week  passed  quietly,  calmly  away, 
With  nothing  important  to  mark  its  brief  stay. 
My  sister  came  home  from  the  East,  Thursday  morn, 
And  the  next  day  a  note  from  my  friend,  "  Colonel  John." 
That  is  all,  I  believe,  that  is  worthy  of  note, 
Except  that  one  evening  a  few  lines  I  wrote, 


36  STOLEN  WATERS, 

Intending  to  send  it  off  to  my  "  Unknown," 
But  my  heart  having  failed  me,  I  left  it  alone, 
And  its  in  my  writing  desk,  still  incomplete, 
But  I  think  I  will  finish  it  during  this  week. 

It  rained  this  A.M.,  so  we  all  staid  at  home, 
And  father  and  I  went  this  evening  alone. 
"We  were  rather  late,  also,  and  when  we  went  in, 
The  choir  were  just  taking  their  places  to  sing. 
My  "  Unknown  "  was  there  in  his  usual  place, 
Smiles  adding  their  charm  to  his  fine,  manly  face  ; 
And  as  the  rich  light  with  its  radiance  warm, 
Beautifying  and  brilliant,  streamed  over  his  form, 
To  his  strange  fascinations  quite  captive  once  more, 
I  thought  him  more  pleasing  than  ever  before. 
What  is  there  about  him  bewitches  me  so  ? 
I  am  sure  that  I  would  very  much  like  to  know. 
It  is  not  his  face,  for  although  it  is  fine, 
And  I've  praised  it  so  highly,  too,  time  after  time, 
Yet  I've  seen  a  great  many  far  handsomer  men. 
There's  Colonel  Allair,  to  begin  with,  and  then 
Charlie  Darling,  and  Morrill,  and  Gus,  and — oh  dear ! 
A  great  many  more  that  I  can't  mention  here. 
It  must  be  his  manner,  if  'tis  not  his  face, 
His  sweet  smiles,  witching  glances,  his  fine,  manly  grace, 
His  exquisite  voice  ever  charming  me  so  ; 
And  I  think,  more  than  all  else,  the  fact  that  I  know 
So  little  of  him,  and  not  like  to  know  more, 
And  am  sure  if  I  did  that  the  spell  would  be  o'er. 
Acquaintance  would  break  the  enchantment,  I'm  sure, 
And  of  my  girlish  folly  effect  a  full  cure. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  37 

Well !  the  service  soon  endecTas  all  things  must  do, 
And  here  I  sit  talking,  my  Journal,  to  yon, 
And  showing,  you  see,  just  how  foolish  I  am, 
To  waste  so  many  thoughts  on  a  quite  unknown  man. 
But  there !  not  a  single  word  more  will  I  write  ! 
So  I  bid  you,  my  Journal,  once  more  a  good-night. 


November  18th,  1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Well !  the  deed  is  accomplished,  the  die  has  been  cast, 
And  I've  sent  to  my  "  Unknown  "  a  letter,  at  last ! 
I  wrote  it  last  evening,  despatched  it  to-day, 
He'll  receive  it  to-morrow,  if  there's  no  delay. 
I'm  impatient  to  know  what  its  destiny  '11  be ; 
If  he'll  deign  to  send  a  nice  answer  to  me, 
In  "  charity  "  written,  with  kindly  words  fraught, 
Or  cast  it  aside  as  unworthy  a  thought — 
Misconstruing  the  motive  with  which  it  was  sent, 
Alone  on  its  author  bestow  his  contempt. 
My  letter  ran  nearly  as  follows,  I  guess, 
First,  the  usual  form  of  the  date  and  address : 
Date—  "  New  York,  November  18th,  '63. 

Address —         "  My  dear  Sir  : 

"  I  trust  you'll  pardon  me, 
And  not  deem  me  bold  if  I  send  you  a  line, 
You  a  stranger  !     Thus  laying  aside,  for  a  time, 
All  etiquette  rules  ;  hoping  you'll  not  refuse 
To  freely  forgive  me  ;  and  for  my  excuse, 


38  STOLEN  WATE11S. 

Pleading  int'rest  in  you,  and  my  hopes  you  will  send 
A  few  lines  in  answer  to  your  unknown  friend. 

I  saw  you  at  first,  if  I  recollect  right, 
Over  one  year  ago,  and  in  church,  Sabbath  night. 
What  drew  my  attention  at  once,  by  the  by, 
I  know  not,  unless  'twas  the  glance  of  your  eye, 
The  smile  on  your  lips,  merry,  careless,  and  free, 
And  your  exquisite  voice  ever  charming  to  me. 
Since  that  time  I've  seen  you  again  and  again, 
And  each  time  I  have  liked  you  more,  even,  than  then ; 
And  although  it  is  possible  I  have  no  skill 
In  reading  correctly  one's  character,  still 
I  think  I  may  say  you're  not  one  to  object 
To  a  little  flirtation,  if  innocent — yet 
If  I  am  mistaken  I  wonder  if  I 
Could  not  reach  your  vanity  if  I  should  try. 
Is  it  nothing  to  win  an  emotion  from  one 
Who  yields  to  the  charm  of  yoxir  presence  alone  ? 
A  passing  emotion  to  win  from  the  heart 
Of  one  who  has  never  been  '  pierced  by  love's  dart '  ? 
Whose  pulse  other  men  have  no  power  to  thrill, 
Who  is  queen  of  herself — and  intends  to  be  still  ? 
You  will  think  this  is  strange — so  do  I ! — but  you  know 
There  are  many  strange  things  in  this  poor  world  of  woe  ; 
And  I  must  repeat  my  sole  motive  to  be, 
My  desire  from  your  hand  a  few  lines  to  receive — 
There !  I  might  have  delayed  a  month  longer,  or  so, 
And  then  for  my  reason  had  '  Leap  Year  '  you  know  ; 
Why  did  I  forget  it  ?  But  'tis  all  the  same. 
Now  'tis  not  my  intention  to  tell  you  my  name, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  39 

Or  aught  of  myself,  and  am  sure  'twill  be  vain 

For  you  to  attempt  any  knowledge  to  gain 

Of  your  correspondent,  and  it  is  alone 

A  future  acquaintance  to  you'll  make  me  known. 

But  here  let  me  tell  you,  en  passant,  my  friend, 

That  though  to  a  stranger  this  letter  I  send, 

That  though  <  to  thee  only  e'er  turns  my  fond  heart, 

And  life  is  all  lonely  except  where  thou  art,' 

Though  I  sometimes  <  long  for  a  glimpse  of  your  face, 

With  hopeless  heart-achings  for  one  dear  embrace,' 

Yet  your  wife — if  you  have  one — is  not,  by  the  by, 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  any  purer  than  I, 

And  the  friendship  I  now  entertain  for  you,  too, 

Is  as  disinterested,  as  sincere,  and  true, 

As  the  most  nice,  fastidious  person  could  wish. 

I  presume  that  I  need  not  ask  you  to  keep  this 

Strictly  private  ;   a  man  of  your  age  can  but  know 

That  it  is  for  your  own  interest  to  do  so, 

Even  more  than  for  mine.     And,  indeed,  I  may  say, 

That  it  matters  but  little  to  me,  either  way, 

For  you  are  acquainted  with  no  one  that  knows 

The  hand  which  I  write.     So  you  see,  I  suppose, 

You  can  know  naught  of  me,  except  what  I  propose 

This  time  or  in  future  to  you  to  disclose. 

"  Now  in  closing  my  note,  I  ask — will  you  not  send 
A  few  lines  in  answer  to  your  unknown  friend  ? 
And  if,  in  the  mean  time,  you  should  regard  this 
With  favor  sufficient  to  grant  me  my  wish, 
Will  you  not  oblige  me  by  wearing  your  ring 
On  your  left  hand,  the  next  Sabbath  morn,  when  you  sing  ? 
Not  so  ignorant  am  I  of  what  we  all  call 
The  '  world,'  not  to  fancy  with  readiness  all 


40  STOLEN  WATERS. 

You  may  think  of  the  one  who  this  note  sends  to  you. 

But  judge  me  with  charity,  as  is  my  due, 

And  some  time  you  may  have  occasion  to  change 

Your  opinion  of  me  ! — 'twould  be  naiight  very  strange  ! 

Now,  hoping  to  hear  from  you  during  the  week, 

I  am, 

"  With  sincerity, 

"  Yours. 

"  <  Bitter-Sweet.' " 
That,  except  my  address,  is  the  whole,  I  believe. 
I  may  have  an  answer  by  Saturday  eve, 
But  probably  not  'till  the  following  week. 
I  am  glad  I  have  finished — I'm  almost  asleep. 


November  22d,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

One  more  holy  Sabbath  has  vanished  among 
The  things  that  have  been  !  And  once  more  I  am  come 
For  a  few  moments'  chat,  my  dear  Journal,  with  you ; 
As  there's  now  nothing  else  I'm  desirous  to  do, 
And  as  I  don't  care  to  retire  either,  yet, 
Though  I  ought  to  before  very  long,  I  expect, 
For  it's  nearly  eleven  now,  I  must  admit. 
I  don't  like  to  go  to  bed  early  one  bit  1 

I  meant,  as  I  said  the  last  time  that  I  wrote, 

To  have  gone  yesterday,  to  find  out  if  a  note 

At  the  office  was  waiting,  in  answer  to  mine 

I  despatched  to  my  unknown  friend  "  once  on  a  time." 


STOLEN   WATERS.  41 

But  when  I  was  dressed,  and  had  stepped  out  the  door, 

I  perceived  what  I'd  quite  failed  to  notice  before, 

That  'twas  then  raining  fast ;  so  I  thought  I'd  delay 

My  walk  to  another  and  pleasanter  day. 

I  did  not,  in  fact,  care  about  getting  wet, 

And  'twas  doubtful,  beside,  if  he'd  written  me  yet. 

Well !  I've  been  out  to  church  morn  and  evening  again. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  my  dear  Journal !  and  when 
The  choir  were  come  forward  the  first  time  to  sing, 
Of  course  my  first  glance  was  for  his  diamond  ring. 
And  my  first  thought  for  him  !     And  as  then  from  my  book 
I  raised  my  eyes  slowly,  my  first  quiet  look 
Was  rewarded  by  seeing  him  standing  up  there, 
And  looking  as  merry,  as  gay,  free  from  care, 
As  handsome,  as  smiling,  as  splendidly  grand, 
As  ever  before.     And  there  on  his  left  hand, 
And  taking  especial  pains  to  have  it  seen, 
Was,  as  I  expected,  his  elegant  ring. 
To-morrow  some  time  I'll  be  certain  to  go 
To  see  if  he's  sent  me  a  letter  or  no. 
Or  if  he  was  playing  when  carrying  out 
The  request  I  in  mine  made  his  fine  ring  about. 

My  brother  and  sister  were  in  town  to-night, 
And  went  to  church  with  us. 

My  "  Unknown  "  was  quite 
Amused  about  something,  but  Zdo  not  know, 
Of  course,  what  it  was.     But — I  think  that,  although 
With  the  same  laughing  glance  he  looked  into  my  eyes, 
Betraying  therein  no  unusual  surprise, 
No  curious  wonder,  yet  he  does  not  dream 
That  I'm  his  unknown  correspondent,  1  ween. 


42  8T0LEN  WATERS. 

His  ring  still  remained  on  his  left  hand  to-night, 
And  I  saw  it,  of  course !  but  he  did  not  make  quite 
So  much  effort  to  hold  it  in  such  a  way,  then, 
That  it  might  be  observed — as  he  did  this  A.M. 
Sometimes  'twas  behind  him,  as  often  he  stands, 
And  sometimes  his  hymn-book  was  held  in  that  hand. 
But  here  I've  sat  dreaming  and  writing  of  him 
And  events  of  the  day  'till  my  eyes  are  quite  dim, 
So  my  book  I  will  shut  \ip  this  instant,  and  write 
Not  one  other  line  in  my  journal  to-night. 


November  2Qt7i,  1863. 

THURSDAY. 

To-day  is  "Thanksgiving!  "     But  first  let  me  write 

What  has  happened  to  me  since  the  last  Sunday  night — 

That  is,  the  result  of  my  venture  last  week, 

The  kind  of  reception  my  letter  did  meet, 

With  all  that  pertains  to  the  same ! 

You  must  know 

The  morning  hours,  Monday,  dragged  tediously  slow, 

While  the  tasks  which  employed  both  my  hands  and  my 

time, 

Helped  but  little  to  quell  such  impatience  as  mine — 

Provoking  impatience  !  my  most  common  sin  ! 

Which  makes  in  my  heart  such  perpetual  din, 

Which  ruffles  my  temper,  and  oft  clouds  my  brow, 

Unstrings  every  nerve,  'till  I'm  ready  to  vow 

That  life  is  a  burden  I  fain  would  lay  down, 

And  yield  with  the  cross  all  my  hopes  of  the  crown ; 


STOLEN  WATERS:  43 

That  life  is  a  battle  the  strongest  must  win, 

Be  they  powers  of  good,  he  they  powers  of  sin. 

So  much  for  impatience  !  which,  last  Monday  morn, 

An  unwelcome  guest,  which  refused  to  be  gone, 

With  hand  on  my  heart-strings,  kept  close  at  my  side, 

And  made  the  slow  hours  e'en  more  tardily  glide. 

Well  !  the  afternoon  really  did  come  at  last, 
And  about  two  o'clock,  or  a  few  minutes  past, 
I  was  dressed,  and  had  started  for  Brooklyn,  to  see 
If  there  was  at  the  office  a  letter  for  me. 
(I  directed,  my  Journal,  his  answer  should  be 
Sent  to  Brooklyn  Bost  Office,  in  order  that  he 
Might  the  less  reason  have  for  suspicions  of  me ; 
For  I,  of  course,  do  not  intend  he  shall  know 
Who  I  am,  either  now  or  hereafter,  and  so 
I  must  take  all  precautions  lest  he  should  find  out, 
As  he  would  be  glad  to  do,  I've  not  a  doubt!) 
Well !  when  the  detestable  clerk  there  had  eyed 
Both  me  and  my  letter  till  quite  satisfied, 
And  quizzed  me  'till  patience  was  vanishing  fast, 
The  much  wished  for  letter  he  gave  me  at  last. 
With  it  safe  in  my  hand  I  left  there  in  great  haste, 
And  for  New  York  I  started  at  once  with  quick  pace, 
And  once  more  to  impatience  succumbing,  you  see, 
And  regardless  of  what  etiquette's  rules  might  be 
On  the  point,  I  at  once  broke  the  seal  of  my  note, 
And  in  the  street  read  what  my  unknown  friend  wrote ; 
But  glanced  through  it  so  swiftly,  I  really  knew 
Little  more  of  my  letter  when  I  had  got  through 
Than  when  I  began ;  but  I  hastened  back  homo, 
As  fast  as  I  could,  and  when  once  more  alono 


44  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  read  the  nice  note  to  my  heart's  full  content 

Which  he  to  his  new  friend  so  kindly  had  sent. 

He  writes  an  uncommonly  nice,  handsome  hand, 

Especially  so  for  a  true  business  man, 

Full  and  round,  smoothly  flowing  as  well  as  quite  plain, 

And  the  well-expressed  sentiments,  pleasing,  the  same ; 

On  "  Carson's  Congress  "  it  was  written,  enclosed 

In  a  plain  buff  envelope ;   the  same,  I  suppose, 

Which  he  keeps  in  his  office  for  use  when  he  writes 

To  his  business  friends.     That,  too,  is  just  what  I  like  ! 

Whenever  a  man  sends  a  letter  to  me 

I  like  that  the  note  should  a  manly  one  be, 

In  paper,  envelopes,  and  handwriting,  too, 

As  well  as  its  contents  both  honest  and  true. 

But  whenever  a  lady  a  note  sends  to  me, 

I  don't  care  how  dainty  the  billet  may  be. 

To  return  to  his  letter  again !  Journal,  dear, 

I  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  give  to  you  here 

A  copy  of  it,  as  I  have  done  of  mine, 

And  I  think  I  will,  too,  though  I  hardly  have  time ; 

It  was  not  very  long,  or  at  least  the  one  sheet 

Was  not  nearly  filled.     It  commenced — 
"  <  Bitter  Sweet ! ' 

"  Your  note  of  the  18th  to  me  came 
to-day, 

And  I  truly  can  do  nothing  less  than  to  say, 

That,  as  well  as  surprised,  I  of  course  could  but  be 

Somewhat  pleased   at   its   contents  !    But   you   must   per- 
ceive * 

That  you  have  indeed  the  advantage  of  me, 

And  I  am  of  course  very  curious  to  see 


STOLEN  WATERS.  45 

And  know  yon  ;  altho'  you  need  have  not  a  fear 

I  will  take  any  means  not  quite  open  and  clear, 

And  every  way  hon'rable,  to  ascertain 

What  would  give  me  much  pleasure  to  have  you  explain, — 

That  is,  who  is  taking  such  int'rest  in  me, 

And  who  my  unknown  correspondent  may  be. 

"  What  a  fine,  pretty  hand  you  are  writing !  and  so, 
Of  course,  young  and  fresh  it  must  be.     Do  you  know 
What  Don  Caesar  Bazan  exclaims  to  the  veiled  bride, 
As  he  takes  her  white  hand  upon  reaching  her  side  ? 
'  It's  tol'rably  soft,  and  I'm  curious  to  know, 
With  such  a  small  hand,  if  a  wrinkled  face  goes.' 
Now  that  is  just  what  is  the  trouble  with  me, 
And  I  wonder  if  I  could  your  hand  just  once  see, 
I  could  of  your  face  judge,  as  you  seem  to  trace — 
Or  affect  to  at  least— by  a  glance  at  my  face, 
My  character  social.     But,  let  me  ask  '  who 
Hath  made  thee  a  judge  '  as  between  me  and  you  ? 
Who  has  said  I  objected  to  what  you  have  called 
An  '  innocent  flirtation  ?  '     Oh,  no  !  not  at  all ! 
And  as  to  the  '  vanity,'  I  have  my  share. 
King  Solomon  seems  to  have  had  some  to  spare, 
If  we  judge  by  his  words. 

"  But  there  !  I  cannot  write. 
To  you,  except  'tis  with  some  vagueness,  to-night, 
As  I  do  not  know  who  you  may  be — man  or  woman, 
A  spirit  or  goblin,  Divine  or  quite  human. 
And  do  you  remember  what  '  Sam  Weller '  says 
(Of  course  you  read  Dickens  ;   all  do  in  these  days), 
'  Weal  pies  wery  good  is,  when  one  knows  as  what 
They  are  made  of.'     But  who  you  may  be  I  know  not, 


46  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Though  the  writing  does  look  quite  familiar,  'tis  true ; 

I  never  was  good  at  conundrums  !  Are  you  ? 

If  your  wish  is  to  see  me,  why,  you  can  do  so  ! 

I'll  not  eat  you,  no  cannibal  am  I,  you  know. 

I  think  up  to  Carleton's  I'll  go,  by  the  by, 

And  a  copy  of  '  Bitter  Sweet '  purchase — shall  I  ? 

Do  you  mean  to  some  fun  have  at  my  sole  expense  ? 

I've  a  poem  that's  better  than  what  you  have  sent, 

Or  quoted  from,  rather,  but  think  it  will  keep 

Until  I  know  more  of  my  friend  '  Bitter  Sweet ! ' 

I  shall  think  in  the  meantime,  believe  me,  of  you, 

With  only  the  '  charity  which  is  your  due ' — 

All  of  my  nature's  charity,  which  I  believe 

I  may  say,  too,  is  much. 

"  Now  in  closing,  receive 
My  kindest  regards,  and  believe  me  to  be, 
Now  and  ever,  indeed, 

"  Truly  yours, 

"  <  Antony.' " 
"  To  '  Bitter  Sweet ! '  (wormwood  and  sugar.)" 

And  that 
Was  the  end  and  was  all.     Can  it  be  'tis  in  fact 
A  note  from  my  "  Unknown  "  I  hold  in  my  hand  ? 
Am  I  dreaming,  or  is  it  a  truth,  that  the  man 
Whose  eyes  have  so  often  of  late  sought  my  own, 
And  whose  every  motion  familiar  has  grown, 
To  whose  voice  I  have  listened  again  and  again, 
In  solo,  or  chorus,  or  solemn  refrain, 
Has  over  this  letter  bent  his  handsome  face, 
That  his  hand  held  the  pen  which  these  kind  words  have 
traced, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  47 

That  his  heart  or  his  brain  has  dictated  this  note, 
A  pleasing  reply  to  the  one  which  I  wrote  ? 
I  cannot  the  fact  realize. 

By  the  way  ! 
I  saw  at  an  artist's  rooms  lately,  one  day, 
A  picture  exactly  like  my  "  Antony." 
(En  passant,  he  seemed  to  adopt  readily, 
The  fanciful  name  which  I  signed  to  my  note, 
And  instead  of  his  using  his  own  when  he  wrote, 
He  too  took  a  fancy  one  !  mine  ought  to  be 
"  Cleopatra,"  to  match  well  with  his  "  Antony!'1) 
To  return  to  the  picture !     And  whose  it  might  be, 
Or  if  it  was  his,  I  was  anxious  to  see. 
The  resemblance  was  striking,  the  painting,  too,  fine. 
I  gazed  at  its  details  for  quite  a  long  time. 
I  was  sure  it  was  him,  or  that  if  it  was  not, 
Whoever  it  was,  he  had  certainly  caught 
His  smile  and  expression!  and  not  only  that, 
The  poise  and  contour  of  the  head  were  exact. 
The  features  were  like,  and  the  beard  worn  the  same, 
And  in  all  points  the  likeness  was  perfectly  plain. 
His  name  of  the  artist  I  presently  asked. 
What  was  it  ?  let's  see!  I  believe  it  has  passed 
Wholly  out  of  my  mind.     But  it  matters  not,  though  ; 
He  resides  up  at  Harlem  is  all  that  I  know. 
It  was  not  my  "  Antony." 

Oh,  by  the  way, 
Had  I  gone  to  the  office  on  last  Saturday 
His  note  I  should  probably  found,  as  the  date 
Was  November  19th.     But  it's  getting  quite  late, 
I  must  haste  with  what  else  I'm  intending  to  write. 


48  STOLEN  WATERS. 

The  first  thing  I  did,  of  course,  last  Monday  night, 

Was  to  sit  myself  down  at  my  desk,  to  indite 

A  reply  to  my  note.     And  I  asked  him  to  send 

His  next  though  to  Brooklyn,  in  care  of  a  friend, 

My  cousin  Lorette.     She  was  over  to-day, 

And  I  told  her  about  it  ere  going  away. 

And  charged  her  to  keep  it  quite  safely  for  me 

Did  the  letter  arrive  before  Zwas  there.     She 

Thought  it  was  romantic,  yet  hardly  approved. 

She  thinks  that  the  world  and  its  people  should  move 

In  the  one  self-same  channel  forever  and  aye. 

But  I  tire  of  the  same  events,  day  after  day, 

A  change  like  sometimes,  and  the  stranger  the  better. 

Oh  dear,  I  will  try  and  get  back  to  my  letter. 

I  don't  know  what  ails  me !  somehow  I  can't  keep 

To-night  on  one  subject.     I  am  not  asleep, 

I  believe.     But  then !  I've  been  so  blue  all  the  day, 

Though  there  is  no  reason  for  it,  I  must  say ; 

I  believe  that  I  am  not  like  other  girls  quite. 

A  houseful  of  friends  we  have  had  here  to-night, 

In  fact,  have  all  day,  and  all  friends  near  and  dear, 

But  somehow  the  day  has  been  lonely  and  drear. 

To  to-day,  though,  I  have  not  arrived  yet ;  my  thoughts 

Seem  to  be  anywhere  else  except  where  they  ought. 

Once  more  to  my  letter ! 

The  first  thing  I  wrote 
Was  but  to  acknowledge  receiving  his  note, 
With  thanks  for  the  favor  ;  and  as  to  the  rest, 
'Twas  less  sentimental  than  saucy,  I  guess. 
I  began  with  affectionate  warmth,  it  is  true, 
And  there  was  an  undertone  of  it  all  through, 
But  yet  it  could  hardly  be  called  sentiment. 
As  the  frail  wood  anemone's  delicate  scent 


STOLEN   WATERS.  49 

Is  too  fresh  and  too  faint  to  be  named  a  perfume, 
So  this  was  too  faint  and  too  pure. 

To  resume  ! 
I  thanked  him,  of  course,  for  replying  so  soon, 
And  fulfilling  my  wish  in  regard  to  the  ring, 
"Was  exceedingly  glad  to  find,  I  assured  him, 
By  the  letter  which  I  that  p.m.  had  received, 
That  he  in  that  point  at  least  had  not  deceived 
His  friend  yet  unknown,  howe'er  treacherous  he 
Might  in  the  dim  future  himself  prove  to  be. 
I  gave  him  in  answer  to  what  he  would  know 
Of  me  and  my  name  the  quotation  below : 
"  I  know  a  girl  with  sunny  curls, 
And  shoulders  white  as  snow  ; 
She  lives — ah,  well !  I  must  not  tell, 

But  wouldnH  you  like  to  know  ? 
She  has  a  name,  the  sweetest  name 

That  mortal  can  bestow. 
'Twould  break  the  spell  if  I  should  tell, 
But  wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ?  " 
Somewhat  tantalizing  he1!!  think  it,  I  fear, 
The  best  I  can  do  for  him  now,  though,  howe'er 
Desirous  he  may  be  to  know  more  of  me. 
Then  I  said — 

"  So  you  fancy  that  if  you  could  see 
My  hand  you  could  judge  of  my  face  !     I  will  try 
And  send  you  a  photograph  of  it.     Shall  I  ? 
Of  course  you  can't  guess  who  I  am  !   I  did  not 
Suppose  that  you  could  !   but  I  know  all  about 
You  and  yours  !  and  not  only  that,  but  I've  been 
In  your  business  place,  and  you  were  writing,  too,  then — 
But  it  was  not  to  me. 
3 


50  STOLEN  WATERS. 

"  Don't  you  like,  my  dear  friend, 
My  nom-de-plume  ?     Why !  I  am  sure  that  the  end 
Is  sweet  if  the  rest  is  not ;  possibly,  you 
Will  find,  if  I'm  sweet,  I  am  bitter  some,  too. 
Its  language  is  '  truth?     I  believe  I  am  true  ! 
J  think  the  name  pertinent  all  ways  !  don't  you?" 
I  spoke  of  attending  the  service  to-day, 
If  nothing  prevented,  and  went  on  to  say 
That  I  never  could  see  him  at  all,  where  I  sit, 
Except  during  singing,  and  if  he  saw  fit 
To  sit  farther  forward,  just  so  he  could  see 
The  preacher,  he  at  the  same  time  would  please  me. 
And  added, 

<lI  do  i  wish  to  see  you,'  and  do 
Quite  often,  but  hardly  dare  trust  myself  too 
Near  to  you  for  the  present,  at  least.     I  can  you 
At  a  safe  distance  see,  but  if  you  would  please  send 
Your  picture  to  your,  though  unknown,  yet  true  friend 
'Twould  indeed  please  her  much." 

Then  I  asked  him  if  he 
Did  not  like  my  poetry  ;  and — saucily — 
"  Now  I  thought  you  would  think  it  was  flattering,  quite  ; 
I  defy  you  to  find  any  better.     You  might, 
Though,  send  me  the  piece  you  referred  to,  and  I 
Expect  it  will  come  to  me  with  your  reply." 
I  wrote  somewhat  more,  but  we'll  let  the  rest  go. 
It  rained  very  hard  all  day  Tuesday,  and  so 
I  found  it  impossible  quite  to  get  out 
To  mail  it  that  day,  so  I  very  much  doubt 
His  having  received  it  as  yet,  though  it  might 
Just  possibly  come  to  his  hands  late  last  night. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  51 

To-day  is  "  Thanksgiving  " — I  said  so  before — 
And  I'm  heartily  glad  that,  the  day  is  now  o'er. 
The  morning  was  pleasant,  but  cold.     I  must  own 
'Twas  not  with  reluctance  I  went  out  alone 
To  church  this  A.M.     No  one  else  was  inclined 
To  go  out,  or  in  fact  seemed  to  have  enough  time 
To  spare  for  the  purpose.     And  though  it  is  true 
We  should  have  a  political  sermon,  I  knew, 
Yet  I  had  my  "  Antony  "  told  I  should  go, 
And  I  mean  to  do  just  as  I  promise,  you  know  ! 
The  sermon,  if  possible,  seemed  rather  more 
Triumphantly  ultra  than  ever  before. 
The  reverend  man  never  energy  lacks 
When  he's  preaching  of  war,  or  of  freeing  the  blacks. 
I  did  not,  however,  expect  on  this  day 
To  hear  aught  but  that ;  but  endeavored  to  pay 
As  little  attention  to  it  as  I  could, 

Though  I  could  but  acknowledge  that  some  points  were  good. 
For  instance,  he  quoted  in  his  matchless  way, 
A  poem  from  Whittier,  which,  1  must  say, 
Was  not  only  pertinent,  in  itself  fine, 
But  rendered  excpiisitely. 

In  the  meantime, 
I  thought  of  my  Antony,  who,  I  well  knew 
Was  right  there  before  me,  though  hidden  from  view. 
When  the  service  was  over,  and  we  going  home, 
He  walked  right  in  front  of  me,  he,  too,  alone ! 
How  Little  he  knew  that  his  friend  "Bitter  Sweet" 
Was  so  near  at  hand  as  he  turned  at  his  street. 
How  I  wished  that  the  spell  were  dissolved  that  must  keep 
Us  forever  apart ;  that  at  one  mighty  sweep 


52  STOLEN   WATERS. 

I  might  break  all  the  bands  with  which  Custom  doth  bind 

Our  acts,  though  we  still  keep  unfettered  our  minds. 

"Well !  he  passed  down  the  street,  and  soon  entered  his  door, 

And  between  us  there  then  rose  one  barrier  more. 

I,  too,  hastened  home  !      As  I  said  once  before, 

We've  a  houseful  of  visitors  had  here  all  day  ; 

I  might  have  enjoyed  it  if  I  had  been  gay, 

As  I  am  sometimes.     Hark  !  the  clock's  striking  one, 

I  am  so  tired,  and  glad  that  at  last  I  have  done  ! 


November  29th,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Another  week's  rapidly  flitted  away ; 
Again  it  is  Sunday !     I  went  yesterday 
To  make  a  short  call  on  my  cousin  Lorette, 
With  hopes  that  I  also  a  letter  might  get. 
And  she  is  true  as  steel,  if  she  did  not  approve 
My  romantic  and  somewhat  unusual  move. 
I  knew  I  could  trust  her.     We  soon  went  upstairs 
To  her  own  little  "  Sanctum  Sanctorum,"  and  where 
She  placed  me  at  once  in  her  favorite  chair, 
And  gave  me  my  letter,  all  safe,  smooth,  and  fair. 
Not  long  was  I  breaking  the  seal  of  my  note, 
Or  reading  the  kind  words  my  Antony  wrote. 
As  I  thought,  he  did  not,  it  appears,  receive  mine 
Until  Friday  A.M.     And  his  letter  was  fine, 
Much  nicer  I  think  than  the  other  he  sent, 
And  gave  me  much  pleasure,  I  own !     It  commenced 


STOLEX   WATERS. 

"  To  my  sweetest  Bitter,  and  bitterest  Sweet !  " 
A  form  of  address  I  thought  rather  unique, 
Yet  characteristic  of  him,  I  believed. 
And  then  wrote  as  follows  : 

"  Your  note  I  received 
In  this  morning's  mail,  and  of  course  I  was  pleased 
At  hearing  from  you.     But  you'll  please  recollect 
That  Thanksgiving  came  yesterday,  therefore  expect 
From  a  quite  torpid  brain  not  much  brilliance  to-day, 
In  reply  to  your  letter.     And  here  let  me  say 
I  believe  that  I  am  not  afflicted  at  all 
"With  a  certain  disease  which  is  commonly  called 
*  Cacoethes  Scribendi.' " 

And  then  he  went  on 
To  ask  if  I  went  to  church  Thanksgiving  morn, 
And  heard  the  "  political  sermon."     He  thought, 
As  regards  abolition  and  war,  that  it  ought 
To  content  the  most  ultra — I'd  written  in  mine 
That  I  was  exceedingly  fond  of  that  kind. — 
He  was  pleased  that  his  letter  was  gladly  received, 
And  hoped  I'd  enough  "  charity  "  to  believe 
It  to  be  on  his  part  but  a  mere  oversight 
That  he  failed  in  his  other  to  ask  me  to  write. 
Says — 

"  1  ask  who  you  are,  and  you  give  me  a  bit 
Of  a  poem  in  answer.     Now  I  will  admit 
Poetry  is  indeed  very  good  in  its  place, 
But  don't  answer  questions — at  least  in  this  case. 
Of  course  I  should  much  '  like  to  know '  who  you  are, 
My  far-off,  unknown,  '  bright  particular  star  ! ' 
Do  not  send  me  a  photograph,  though,  of  your  hand ; 
If  you  do  I'll  not  have  it,  indeed  !  but  you  can 


53 


5i  STOLEN   WATERS. 

The  thing  itself  place  in  my  own,  then  I'd  know 

I  was  holding  in  mine  something  more  than  shadow ; 

But  one  of  your  face  you  can  send  me.     How,  though, 

Should  I  send  mine  to  one  I  as  yet  do  not  know  ? 

I've  not  lost  my  reason,  or  caution,  and  still 

You  can  have  a  good  chance  to  exchange  if  you  will, 

When  I've  aught  to  exchange  with." 

How  much  I  would  like 
His  fine  pictured  face !     How  I  wish  that  I  might 
Comply  with  the  terms,  if  in  no  other  way 
I  might  have  it.     Although,  it  is  needless  to  say, 
That's  out  of  the  question,  of  course.     He'd  know  me 
As  soon  as  he  saw  it,  and  that  must  not  be. 
"Who  his  "  Bitter  Sweet "  is  I  cannot  let  him  know, 
Or  now,  or  henceforth ;  but  I  don't  tell  him  so. 
He  fondly  imagines  he'll  know  me  some  time. 
I  don't  undeceive  him.     Dream  on,  friend  of  mine  ! 
Hope  is  good  for  the  soul,  and  "  an  anchor  both  sure  J 
And  steadfast,"  'tis  said.     Though  we  find  it  a  lure 
Too  often,  I  fear,  to  the  bitter  despair 
Of  grim  disappointment.     Hope  promises  fair, 
And  leaves  us  to  find,  in  reward  for  our  faith, 
In  our  grasp  but  a  phantom,  a  flickering  wraith — 
A  shadow  delusive,  as  fleeting  as  sweet, 
Yet  by  all  mankind  followed  with  swift,  eager  feet, 
Who  will  never  be  warned  by  another's  sad  fate 
But  press  madly  forward,  nor  pause  'till,  too  late, 
They  find  themselves  in  disappointment's  broad  lake. 
She  tells  us  without  her  our  fond  hearts  will  break, 
Then  leaves  us  to  sicken  with  faint  "hope  deferred." 
I  have  a  dear  friend  whom  I  often  have  heard 


STOLEN  WATERS.  55 

Declare  slie  lias  been  disappointed  in  naught, 

Because  she  ne'er  hopes.     She  had  certainly  ought 

To  be  indeed  happy !     At  least,  I  think  so. 

I  envy  her  more  than  all  persons  I  know. 

But  I'm  not  like  her;  I  have  less  self-control, 

A  more  turbulent  heart,  and  more  intense  soul ; 

Have  less  calmness  of  nerve,  and  less  coolness  of  brain. 

Less  firmness,  more  impulse ;  in  short,  it  is  plain 

We  are  cast  in  two  moulds  which  are  very  unlike, 

Or  made  of  materials  different  quite. 

But  if  I  could  crush  out  all  hope  from  my  heart, 

And  in  my  acts  give  the  "  fair  siren  "  no  part, 

List  not  to  her  calls,  shut  my  eyes  to  her  smiles, 

And  yield  nevermore  to  her  dangerous  wiles, 

Feel  free  from  her  temptings  both  now  and  alway, 

I  would  have  nothing  more  to  desire !      I  could  say, 

"  Howl,  wind  of  November,  rough,  wrathful,  and  chilly, 

As  loud  as  you  please,  and  I'll  not  take  it  illy, 

For  here  in  my  chamber  all's  comfort  and  ease, 

All's  peace  and  delight,  all  is  pleasure  and  glee, 

For  I'm  happy  to-night  as  a  mortal  can  be  !  " 

But  "  Dum  spiro  spero  "  's  my  fate,  and  should  be 

My  motto ! 

Well !  back  to  his  note — let  me  see ! 
How  far  had  I  written  ?     The  picture — and  then 
The  next  thing  he  wrote  was,  I  think,  near  the  end — 
"  Your  quotation — I  surely  no  fault  found  with  it, 
For  'twas  good,  and  if  true  was  of  course  better  yet. 
But  then,  I  am  sure  it  was  merely  ideal, 
And  I  send  you  my  own,  and  imagine  it  reaL 
This  scrawl  please  excuse,  and  believe  me 

"  Your  own 

"  Antony. 


56  STOLEN  WATERS. 

"  To  my  'Bitter-Sweet.'  " 

This  was  the  poem : 

"  You  kissed  me  !  my  head  had  dropped  low  on  your 
breast, 
With  a  feeling  of  shelter  and  infinite  rest, 
While  the  holy  emotion  my  tongue  dared  not  speak 
Flashed  up  like  a  flame  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek. 
Your  arms  held  me  fast !  and  your  arms  were  so  bold, 
Heart  beat  against  heart  in  that  rapturous  fold, 
Your  glances  seemed  drawing  my  soul  through  my  eyes, 
As  the  sun  draws  the  mist  from  the  sea  to  the  skies. 
And  your  lips  clung  to  mine  'till  I  prayed,  in  my  bliss, 
They  might  never  unclasp  from  that  rapturous  kiss. 

"  You  kissed  me !  my  heart  and  my  breath  and  my  will 
In  delirious  joy  for  the  moment  stood  still. 
Life  had  for  me  then  no  temptations,  no  charms, 
No  vista  of  pleasure  outside  of  your  arms. 
And  were  I  this  instant  an  angel,  possessed 
Of  the  gloi*y  and  peace  that  is  given  the  blest, 
I  would  throw  my  white  robes  unrepiningly  down, 
And  tear  from  my  forehead  its  beautiful  crown, 
To  nestle  once  more  in  that  haven  of  rest, 
With  your  lips  upon  mine  and  my  head  on  your  breast. 

"  You  kissed  me  !  my  soul  in  a  bliss  so  divine 
Reeled  and  swooned,  like  a  drunken  man  foolish  with  wine. 
And  I  thought  'twere  delicious  to  die  then,  if  death 
Would  come  while  my  mouth  was  yet  moist  with  your  breath. 
'Twere  delicious  to  die  if  my  heart  might  grow  cold 
While  your  arms  wrapped  me  round  in  that  passionate  fold. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  57 

And  these  are  the  questions  I  ask  day  and  night : 
Must  my  soul  taste  but  once  such  exquisite  delight  ? 
Would  you  care  if  your  breast  was  my  shelter  as  then, 
And  if  you  were  here  would  you  kiss  me  again  ?  " 

I  think  it  exquisitely  fine.     And  of  course 
Seems  doubly  expressive  to  come  from  that  source. 
Impassioned  and  sweet,  yet  refreshingly  pure, 
No  fault  I  can  have  to  find  with  it,  I'm  sure. 
But  to  come  to  to-day !  and  to  hasten  it,  too, 
For  as  ever  'tis  late,  I  must  quickly  get  through. 
To  church  morn  and  eve  I  of  course  went  to-day, 
Saw  my  "Antony,"  too,  just  as  handsome  and  gay — 
He  does  have  such  an  easy  and  nonchalant  way, 
As  if  nothing  could  ruffle  him,  let  others  say 
Or  do  what  they  might.     And  his  temper  is  sweet, 
I  am  certain,  as  well  as  his  manner  just  meet 
To  match  with  his  face,  so  serene,  true,  and  kind. 
His  soft,  laughing,  passionate  eye  still  meets  mine, 
Persistently,  sweetly  as  ever,  and  yet 
I've  not  the  least  reason  to  think  he  suspects 
That  I  am  his  Bitter-Sweet !  never  a  trace 
Since  sending  my  first  have  I  seen  in  his  face 
Of  bewilderment,  doubt,  curiosity,  aught 
Of  inquisitive  wonder.     'Tis  strange  he  does  not 
Have  any  suspicions,  not  only  of  me 
But  of  no  one  beside.     There  are  many  that  he 
Might  with  very  good  reason  imagine  to  be 
His  unknown  correspondent. 

Oh  well,  let  it  pass  ! 
I  sent  him  an  answer  to-day  to  his  last. 


58  STOLEN  WATERS. 

He'll  receive  it  to-morrow !     And  oh,  by  the  -way, 

He  sat  not  in  front  as  I  asked  hiin,  to-day ; 

I  suppose  that  he  thinks  he's  not  anxious  to  be 

Closely  scrutinized  all  the  time,  even  by  me, 

His  "  own  Bitter-Sweet !  "     That  'tis  sufficient  that  he 

Is  constantly  conscious  that  some  one  unknown 

Is  watching  each  motion  and  look  of  his  own 

When  he  sings.     So  he  sat  in  his  usual  seat 

In  the  "  corner  "  this  morning,  and  so  Bitter-Sweet's 

Request  was  unheeded.     I  asked  what  he  did, 

En  my  letter  to-day,  when  he  sat  safely  hid 

From  sight  in  the  "  corner." 

"lis  late,  and  in  bed 
[  must  hasten  to  pillow  my  quite  wearied  head. 


December  2d,  1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Oh,  how  perfect  the  night !  I've  been  sitting  upstairs 
The  whole  evening,  nearly.     My  great  easy  chair 
And  my  table  drawn  close  to  the  bright  glowing  grate, 
I  have  written  and  dreamed  'till  it's  getting  quite  late, 
With  my  journal  unopened  before  me.     The  night, 
With  its  undreamed-of  beauty  all  hidden  from  sight, 
By  the  low-drooping  shade,  and  the  tightly-closed  blind. 
Unheeding  the  voice  of  December's  chill  wind, 
Its  soft  calls  for  entrance  at  casement  and  door, 
I  have,  as  I  said,  sat  the  bright  fire  before, 
Slow  yielding  to  Fancy's  magnetic  advance, 
Her  airy  bright  dreams,  heart-bewildering  trance. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  59 

At  intervals  writing,  when  not  in  the  power 
Of  the  lovely  enchantress,  'till  hour  after  hour 
Have  rolled  their  swift  round,  to  return  never  more 
From  the  vanishing  past,  from  Eternity's  shore. 
"  Like  a  song  that  is  sung,  and  a  tale  that  is  told," 
They  have  now  passed  away,  and  the  day  waxes  old. 
Midnight  softly  approaches,  and  swift,  one  by  one, 
The  minutes  glide  onward,  and — this  day  is  done  ! 
The  clock's  striking  twelve,  my  watch  ticks  a  response, 
And  silence  and  midnight  are  now,  for  the  nonce, 
Of  our  city  twin-monarchs  unquestioned.     The  bell 
Slowly  tolls  for  the  hour  just  departed,  and  swells 
Softly  deep  on  the  clear,  frosty  air.     Now  the  last 
Stroke  is  dying — fai^ewell  to  to-day  ! 

«n  I  had  passed 

To  the  casement  a  short  time  ago,  and  I  drew 
Up  the  shade  to  look  out  on  the  night.     And  a  view 
Before  me  was  spread  I've  no  words  to  describe. 
My  seat  I  resumed,  but  I  left  open  wide 
Every  blind  in  the  room,  that  the  full  lustrous  tide 
Of  the  night's  perfect  beauty  might  entrance  gain  here, 
While  I  sit  here  and  write. 

And  the  picture  spreads  clear 
And  sweetly  before  me  !   The  city  lies  calm 
In  night's  silent  embrace ;  and  a  lullaby  psalm 
Is  sung  by  the  wind,  though  it  tranquilly  sleeps 
And  heeds  not  the  clasp  or  the  music  which  sweeps 
So  fitfully,  tenderly  o'er  it.     Its  spires, 

Gleaming  white  in  the  moonlight,  now  seem  to  point  higher 
Than  ever  before  to  the  home  of  the  blest. 
All  with  eloquence  speaks  of  sweet  quiet  and  rest. 


60  STOLEN  WATERS. 

So  much  for  the  background !     And  now  in  the  fore 

The  park  lies  all  silent,  the  trees  festooned  o'er 

"With  creamy  white  snow-wreaths,  and  ice-pendants,  too, 

Which  glitter  like  diamonds,  or  morning's  clear  dew, 

As  over  the  whole  streams  the  moonlight.     The  street 

Is  deserted  !  and  hark  1  I  can  hear  my  heart  beat, 

So  profound  is  the  hush.     The  long,  deep  shadows  meet, 

Intertwining  and  tracing,  too,  figures  unique, 

Graceful,  fanciful,  varied,  oft  shifting,  too, 

As  the  fickle  wind  flits  the  white  tree-branches  through. 

And  then  over  all  is  the  arched  azure  sky, 

Deeply  blue  and  unclouded.     The  moon's  riding  high 

On  her  grand  throne  of  state,  and  her  radiance  bright 

Sweeps  over  all  points  of  the  picture,  and  lights 

With  a  brilliance  sublime  the  whole  view.     And  the  stars, 

Scintillescent,  unnumbered,  and  lovelier  far, 

To  my  eye,  than  all  in  the  picture  beside, 

Glow  softly  and  purely  ;  and  spangle  in  bright 

And  boundless  profusion  the  vast  vault  above, 

A  glorious  array  !     And  the  bright  star  of  love 

Still  more  lovely  than  any  shines  soft  from  afar — 

Sweet  Venus,  our  beautiful  "  Evening  star." 

Farewell  to  the  night !  let  me  now  turn  away 

From  its  beautiful  self,  while  I  come  to  to-day 

The  day  just  departed. 

I  went  this  A.  M. 
To  Brooklyn  to  look  for  a  letter  again, 
And  I  went  not  in  vain,  though  I  fancied  I  should 
All  the  way  over  there.     He's  indeed  very  good ! 
I  said  in  my  last  I'd  a  long  way  to  go, 
And  hoped  he  would  not  disappoint  me  ;  and  so 


STOLEN  WATERS.  61 

His  letter  was  promptly  dispatched.     He  replied 
As  follows  to  that  part : 

"  You  do  not  reside 
In  Brooklyn,  my  Bitter-Sweet  ?     Well !  it  is  true 
I  hardly  ^supposed  that  you  did  ;  nor  did  you 
Even  say  that  you  did :  but  yovi  only  implied 
It  in  your  first  letter." 

The  city  is  wide, 
He  cannot  locate  me.     Poor  boy  !  'tis  too  bad 
I  can't  tell  him  the  whole.     I  am  sure  I'd  be  glad 
To  do  so  at  once,  if  I  thought  'twould  be  best. 
Think  of  that,  though,  I  must  not !     And  now  for  the  rest, 
And  hastily  too,  of  my  Antony's  letter  ; 
It  was  not  very  long,  began — "  My  Sweet  Tormentor  !  " 
He  acknowledged  at  first  the  receipt  of  my  note, 
Praising  me  for  the  promptness  with  which  I  last  wrote, 
Saying  I  would  an  excellent  post-mistress  be, 
And  then — 

"  But  don't  bother  my  life  out  of  me, 
Keeping  me  for  so  long  in  suspense,  like  a  fish 
With  a  hook  in  his  gills  !  " 

So  my  gentleman  is 
Getting  rather  impatient,  I  see ;  nor  can  I 
Wonder  at  it,  indeed ;  but  I  can't  gratify 
My  dear  friend  in  this  point,  though  I  made  in  reply 
Promise  fair  of  acquaintance  with  me  by  and  by. 
He  was  glad  I  was  pleased  with  the  poem  he  sent, 
And  how  could  I  help  it  ?  "'twas  fine,  and  he  meant 
When  some  better  he  found  to  at  once  let  me  know. 
He  sent  me  with  this  note  another  also. 
Then  he  said, — 


62  STOLEN  WATERS. 

"  In  regard  to  the  '  corner  '  I  read, 
Sometimes  '  snooze '  a  little,  don't  talk  much,  indeed, 
But  a  great  deal  of  thinking  I  do.      How  should  I 
For  a  sight  perch  myself  up  ?  although,  by  the  by, 
If  1  knew  where  you  sat,  might  perhaps  get  a  glimpse 
Of  you  once  in  a  while." 

I  remember  now,  since 
Receiving  his  letter,  that  I  in  my  last, 
Criticising  the  poem  "  You  Kissed  Me,"  had  passed 
To  say,  I  supposed  every  one's  heart  to  be 
On  the  left  side.     In  that  case,  of  course  he  must  see 
A  position  in  which  a  "  heart  beats  against  heart," 
At  least,  must  be  awkward  extremely.     That  part 
He  replies  to  as  follows : 

"  Now  as  to  the  heart, 
Of  course  every  one's  is  expected  to  be 
On  the  left  side !  but  then,  did  you  never  yet  see 
Or  hear  of  a  person  that  had  not  a  heart  ? 
I  have,  at  least,  many,  I  think,  for  my  part." 
Wrote  a  page  or  so  more,  then  abruptly  he  says, 
I  am  going  away  to  be  gone  a  few  days, 
Shall  return  Friday  morning,  expecting  to  find 
A  letter  from  fair  Bitter-Sweet. 

"  Ever  thine, 

"  Antony." 
So  a  note  I  have  written  this  eve 
In  reply  to  his  last,  and  which  he  will  receive, 
I  trust,  as  he  wished,  Friday  morn.     A  last  look 
At  the  beautiful  night  while  I'm  closing  my  book. 


STOLEN   WATERS.  63 


December  Gth,  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Twilight  finds  me  again  in  my  nice  cosey  room, 
Sitting  close  by  the  window ;  the  gathering  gloom 
Slowly  filling  my  sanctum  with  weird  shadows  grim, 
While  without  distant  objects  now  swiftly  grow  dim. 
Fading  ai-e  the  rich  hues  from  the  far  western  sky, 
The  first  star  shines  out  in  the  blue  arch  on  high, 
And  the  short  winter  twilight  is  o'er.     I  must  light 
The  gas  in  my  sanctum  if  wishing  to  write. 
I've  sat  here  a  long  time,  my  eyes  on  the  grand 
Sunset  clouds  in  the  west,  with  my  cheek  in  my  hand, 
Unopened  the  book  in  my  lap.     A  tumult 
Of  vague  troubled  thoughts  in  my  mind,  the  result 
Of  to-day's  observation  and  last  night's  event. 
I'll  tell  you  about  it ! 

'Twas  late  when  I  went 
To  B.  yesterday  for  my  letter.     The  day 
Had  been,  oh,  so  long  !     Failed  in  getting  away 
'Till  late  in  the  afternoon ;  then  it  to  me 
Seemed  an  endless  long  way  from  here  over  to  B. 
All  day  I  had  scarcely  dared  think  I  should  find 
Any  letter  awaiting  me  there,  and  my  mind 
And  nerves  were  so  wrought  up  with  hope,  doubt,  and  fear, 
Being  anxious  to  go,  and  yet  forced  to  stay  here, 
That  I've  been  somewhat  irritable  all  the  day, 
Nervous,  too,  and — well,  "  cross"  I  once  heard  Gertrude  say. 


64:  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  when  I  at  length  was  en  route  for  Lorette's, 

As  I  said  just  above,  the  way  seemed  longer  yet 

Than  ever  before.     When  I  reached  there  at  last, 

The  sun  had  long  set  and  'twas  growing  dark  fast. 

My  cousin  I  fouDd  entertaining  some  friends, 

And  I  thought,  I  am  sure,  their  call  never  would  end. 

Lorette  guessed  the  question  my  first  glance  implied, 

And  by  one  just  as  eloquent  quickly  replied. 

And  then  softly  whispered,  while  kissing  my  cheek, 

"  I've  a  letter  upstairs  for  my  dear  '  Bitter-Sweet.'  " 

I  was  forced  to  seem  calm,  although  inly  I  chafed, 

While  they  talked  of  all  things,  and  of  nothings  !  and  raved 

About  this  one's  fine  mustache,  and  that  one's  sweet  face, 

Of  Miss  A.'s  last  new  dress,  of  Miss  B.'s  lovely  lace, 

The  next  ball,  last  night's  party,  and  so,  on  and  on, 

'Till  politeness  and  patience  were  both  nearly  gone. 

I  turned  to  the  window  in  silence,  and  found 

It  was  growing  yet  darker  each  moment.     The  sound 

Of  their  farewells  at  length  reached  my  ear ;  and  then  I, 

With  a  smile  not  all  feigned,  turned  to  bid  them  good-by. 

Lorette  shut  the  door  on  her  callers,  and  ran 

Upstairs  for  my  letter.     'Twas  soon  in  my  hand, 

And  I  went  to  the  window  to  catch  the  few  last 

Faint  gleams  of  daylight,  while  she  lighted  the  gas. 

I  turned  from  the  casement  at  length,  with  a  cheek 

A-flush  with  both  pleasure  and  pain — turned  to  speak 

To  Lorette,  but  the  dear  girl  had  gone  out  the  room 

That  I  might  be  alone  with  my  letter.     She  soon, 

However,  returned,  in  her  sweet,  pretty  way 

Did  her  best  to  induce  me  in  Brooklyn  to  stay 

Until  Monday  a.m.  ;  but  I  sent  her  instead 

To  her  room  for  a  hat  for  her  dear  little  head, 


STOLEN   WATERS.  65 

And  her  home  dress  to  change  for  her  walking  attire. 
Her  toilet  was  made  with  a  speed  I  admire 
Very  much,  but  somehow  never  can  emulate, 
And  homeward  we  started  at  once,  at  quick  rate. 
She  returned  home  this  morning. 

And  now  for  his  letter  ! 
I  think  that  he  never  has  sent  me  a  better. 
And  yet,  as  I  said  once  before,  or  implied, 
It  gave  me  some  pain  if  much  pleasure.     Each  vied 
"With  the  other  for  conquest.     But  still,  of  the  two, 
I  think  the  most  pleasure  remains.     Though  'tis  true 
I  scarcely  can  tell  which  is  yet  most  complete, 
But  if  pleasure,  my  name  it  is  like,  bitter-sweet  / 
In  order  to  make  plain  some  parts  of  his  note, 
I'm  obliged  to  refer  to  some  things  which  I  wrote 
In  my  last  one  to  him.     And  first,  some  time  ago, 
In  one  of  my  letters,  and  when  he  was  so 
Very  curious  as  to  who  B.  S.  might  be, 
I  told  him  he  need  not  be  looking  for  me 
Among  black-eyed  ladies  in  church.     And  I  this 
Said  because,  though  I  did  not  assuredly  wish 
Him  to  think  me  his  new  correspondent,  I  yet 
Did  not  care,  I  think,  either,  that  he  should  suspect 
Any  one  else  but  me.     And  to  this  he  has  never 
Made  any  reply  'till  this  very  last  letter. 
Then  in  answer  to  what  he  about  the  P.M. 
In  his  other  had  said,  I  replied — 

"  When  I  spent 
Some  time  in  the  countiy,  a  few  years  ago, 
I  had  a  dear  friend  who  was  post-mistress.     So 
I  thought  it  fine  fun  to  assist  her,  you  know  ! 


66  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Nothing  new  would  it  be  to  me,  therefore,  you  see, 

To  be  a  «  P.M.'  do  you  not,  Antony  ? 

I  think  I'd  not  care  to  hold  office,  although, 

Under  <  Abraham  First.'  "     Then  I  told  him,  below, 

In  regard  to  desiring  to  see  me,  that  I 

"Was  going  down  town  to  have  made,  by  and  by, 

A  hair  ring,  which  a  dear  friend  in  dying  gave  me, 

And  then  it  was  possible,  too,  he  might  see 

His  own  "  Bitter-Sweet."     Promises  doubtful  somewhat, 

And  I  fancy  that  he,  too,  will  think  they  are  not 

Extremely  reliable.     Then  I  said,  too, 

Concerning  the  picture — 

"  I  cannot  send  you 

One  of  mine,  I  believe,  for  you'd  certainly  know. 

At  the  very  first  glance  who  was  '  Bitter-Sweet.'     So 

If  on  no  other  tercns  you  will  send  yours  to  me, 

Contented  without  it  suppose  I  must  be." 
w  - 

I  come  now  to  his  letter,  of  which  I  intend 
A  copy  to  give  from  beginning  to  end, 
To  you,  and  to  you,  my  dear  Journal,  alone. 
First,  as  usual,  the  date,  then — 

"  My  'Antonj^'s  own  ! ' 
I  received  yours  this  morning,  and  find  you  are  still 
Most  punctual  in  your  correspondence ;  and  will 
You  be  in  your  promises  also  ? 

"  How  came 
That  thought  of  the  post-mistress  into  my  brain  ? 
Was  it  a  coincidence,  do  you  surmise, 
Or  was  it  pathetism  ?  say,  my  Blue  Eyes ! 
And  so  you  do  not  like  '  Abraham  the  First.'     Well, 
I  can't  say  that  I  do  a  great  deal  myself, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  C7 

Although  I  doubt  not  there  are  yet  many  men 

That  are,  in  some  points,  worse  than  he  is.     But  then 

We  will  let,  as  a  mantle,  our  '  charity '  cover 

Their  sins  of  omission  and  commission  over. 

Well !   I'm  just  as  inquisitive,  curious,  too, 

Now  as  ever  before.     Yours  are  not  *  eyes  of  blue  ' 

When  I'm  singing  at  church  I  so  frequently  meet 

Upturned  to  my  own,  are  tbey,  my  Bitter-Sweet  ? 

What  do  you  suppose  in  the  '  corner '  I  read  ? 

'  Words,  words,  words,'  but  I  think  not  a  little  indeed 

Of  late,  and  of  whom  ?  aye  !  my  friend,  that's  the  question  ! 

Can  you  guess,  or  in  truth  make  the  slightest  suggestion 

As  to  who  it  might  be  ?     Do  we  not,  it  is  clear, 

Attend  service  the  preacher's  fine  sermons  to  hear, 

Aud  of  what  he  discourses  to  think  ? 

"  I  suppose 
When  you  have  your  ring  made  I  shall  see  it ;  who  knows 
But  I  am  a  judge  of  the  article,  too  ? 
Do  you  really  think  I  should  recognize  you 
If  your  picture  I  saw  ?     Well !  and  what  if  I  do  ? 
Are  you  so  ill-looking  that  you  are  afraid 
To  be  looked  at,  my  B.  S.  ? 

"  Quite  likely  you  may 
Have  before  seen  the  poem,  and  possibly,  too, 
The  first.     Both  were  good  !   I  think  this  is,  don't  you  ? 
*  For  the  pillow  of  down  where  you  rest  your  head, 

I'll  pillow  my  own  on  your  breast  instead, 

For  love  can  soften  the  hardest  bed. 
And  I  know  that  I  love  you  ! 

And  when  you  grow  tired  of  your  marble  halls, 

Of  your  weary  life  and  its  gilded  thralls, 

Come  where  the  voice  of  true  love  calls, 
And  see  how  I  love  you ! ' 


68  STOLEN  WATERS. 

4  La  patience  et  amere,  mais  son  fruit  est  doux ! ' 
Your  whole  name  is  there.     When  am  I  to  see  you, 
No  longer  to  draw  on  the  imagination 
Of 

"  Your 

"Antony?" 

With  full  realization 
That  he  at  last  knew  me,  I  went  out,  to-day, 
To  service  as  usual.     Although  I  must  say 
My  heart  faster  beat,  as  I  entered  the  porch, 
And  also  the  whole  time  that  I  was  in  church, 
Until  its  pulsations  almost  made  me  faint, 
And  colored  my  cheek  with  a  crimson  not  paint, 
And  made  me  self- vexed  at  my  want  of  control 
Of  my  heart  and  my  face.     The  vexation  of  soul 
Did  not  better  it  much.     And  then,  not  only  that, 
But  in  front  all  the  A.M.  my  "  Antony  "  sat, 
And  by  his  frequent  glances,  his  witching,  and  wise, 
Conscious  look,  and  soft  smiles,  too,  whenever  his  eyes 
Met  my  own,  very  plainly  told  me,  if  before 
I  had  doubted,  that  all  mystery  was  now  o'er, 
In  his  mind,  at  the  least,  and  was  certain  he  knew 
His  Bitter-Sweet  now.     I  would  like  to  know,  too, 
After  such  a  long  time  how  he  came  to  suspect 
Me  to  be  his  unknown  correspondent.     And  yet, 
I  wonder,  as  I've  said  before,  he  has  not 
Read  the  riddle  ere  this,  and  discerned  the  whole  plot. 
He  sat  with  his  back  to  the  preacher,  so  I 
Could  not,  if  I  would,  fail  to  understand  why 
He  sat  in  the  front  of  the  choir  this  A.M., 
And  glanced  so  persistently  at  me.     But  then, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  69 

Although,  as  I  said  once  before,  in  his  look 

There  was  consciousness  plain,  even  that  I  could  brook, 

As  long  as  no  triumph  blent  with  it.     And  I 

Must  acknowledge  I  could  not,  indeed,  should  I  try, 

Take  the  slightest  offence  at  his  actions,  or  feel 

That  any  desire  I  need  have  to  conceal 

My  identity  longer  from  him.     For  if  pleased 

And  conscious  he  looked,  and  convinced,  yet,  at  least, 

There  was  nothing  but  sweetness  expressed  in  his  face — 

And  of  triumph  or  sarcasm  never  a  trace. 

This  was  last  night's  "  event,"  and  was  also  a  part 
Of  to-day's  "  observation,"  which  rendered  my  heart 
And  thoughts  much  more  troubled  than  ever  before. 
"  Never  singly  misfortunes  do  come."     I  was  more 
Annoyed  at  his  guessing  than  I  have  expressed, 
And  ere  I  to  that  became  reconciled,  pressed 
On  my  heart  was  another  and  far  deeper  cause 
For  trouble,  vexation,  regret !     And  this  was — 
But  first,  I  must  go  back  a  very  short  time, 
To  a  trifling  occurrence,  which  made  on  my  mind 
At  the  moment  no  sort  of  impression,  I  think, 
And  yet,  has,  it  seems,  proved  to  be  the  first  link 
In  the  chain  of  events  which  first  made  me  suspect 
What  now  I  am  sure  of.     I  don't  recollect 
Exactly  how  long,  but  a  few  weeks  ago, 
My  Sabbath-school  teacher  was  absent,  and  so,. 
With  exception  of  one  or  two,  all  of  the  class, 
And  the  superintendent  to  me  came  to  ask 
If  I  would  a  class  please  to  teach  for  the  session  ? 
He'd  take  no  refusal,  so  I  took  possession 


70  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Of  a  small  class  of  boys  near  my  own.     They  were  lads, 
I  think,  of  about  twelve  or  thirteen.     I  had 
In  marking  the  class-book,  to  ask  them  their  names — 
There  were  two   little  boys   there  whose   names  were  the 

same 
That  my  Antony's  is ;  and  then,  not  alone  that, 
But  they  on  the  same  street  resided,  in  fact, 
Or  one  of  them,  rather,  the  other  boy  being 
A  cousin  from  out  of  town ;  both,  though  agreeing 
Sufficient  in  manner  and  look  to  be  brothers ; 
Were  attentive  and  quiet,  while  all  of  the  others 
Were  restless  extremely  and  vexing.    They,  too, 
Were  very  intelligent,  and,  it  is  true, 
I  took  quite  a  fancy  to  both,  and  yet,  I 
Never  dreamed  that  they  could  be  related  to  my 
Antony,  notwithstanding  that  both  street  and  name 
Were  alike.     Still,  I  think  this  will  not  seem  so  strange, 
When  I  say  there  are  several  more  of  the  same 
Name  in  church.     And  since  then  I  have  seen  many  times 
The  same  boy  in  the  seat  abreast  nearly  of  mine, 
With  a  fresh,  fair-faced  lady  appearing  to  be 
His  mother  ;  though  very  young-looking  is  she, 
To  claim  such  a  large  boy  as  son. 

Well,  now  I 
Have  heard,  more  than  one  time  of  late,  by  the  by, 
That  my  friend  Antony  was  a  married  man  ;  yet 
The  report  I  have  never  considered  correct, 
For  various  reasons.     And  first,  as  the  source 
From  which  it  had  come  was  not  trusty,  of  course 
I  could  not  a  story  believe  which  was  told 
With  vagueness  and  doubt.     To  be  sure  he  is  old 


STOLEN  WATERS.  71 

Enough  to  have  been  some  years  married ;  but  then 

One  never  can  judge  of  the  age  of  such  men 

As  he  is.     To  look  at  his  face,  one  would  say 

It  was  one  that  would  never  grow  old,  and  to-day 

He  might  be  twenty-five,  and  from  there  all  the  way 

To  forty,  or  forty  -five,  even.     Beside 

All  this,  too,  although  to  the  same  church  have  I 

Every  Sabbath  been,  nearly  a  whole  year  or  more, 

I  have  never  seen  with  him,  not  either  before 

Or  after  the  service,  one  lady.     And  so 

'Tis  no  wonder  I  doubted  his  marriage,  I  know. 

I  was  early  this  morn,  and  I  reached  there  before 
My  Antony  did ;  but  the  vestibule  door 
By  some  chance  was  left  open ;  and  when  he  came  in 
The  boy  I  have  spoken  about  was  with  him. 
The  door  being  directly  in  front,  too,  of  me, 
Of  course  when  they  entered,  I  could  not  but  see 
Them  both  very  plainly.     Alike,  much,  forsooth, 
In  form,  not  in  face,  were  those  two,  man  and  youth. 
At  my  first  glance  at  them,  the  entire  bitter  truth 
Flashed  over  my  mind  in  a  trice.     This  and  that 
Put  together  had  quickly  resolved  into  fact 
What  I'd  given  no  thought  to  before.     I  then  knew 
How  thoroughly  blind  I'd  been  all  the  way  through. 

You  must  know,  my  dear  Journal,  the  sermon  to-day 
May  have  been  Greek  or  Hebrew,  for  all  I  can  say — 
That  not  much  of  it  entered  my  mind.     Howe'er  well 
It  may  have  been  written  or  rendered,  it  fell 
In  my  case  on  unheeding  ears.     Take  all  that, 
With  the  just  acquired  knowledge  that  he  was  in  fact 


72  STOLEN  WATERS. 

At  length  satisfied  who  was  his  Bitter-Sweet ; 

And  not  this  alone,  but  within  a  few  feet 

He  was  sitting,  his  handsome  face,  tender  and  grand, 

Sometimes  turned  to  me,  sometimes  bent  on  his  hand, 

In  a  reverie  sweet  and  profound.     And  I  could 

Not  have  doubted  of  whom  he  then  thought,  if  I  would. 

Then  his  soft,  tender,  smiling,  and  passionate  eye 

Constantly  sought  my  own.     Do  you  wonder  that  I, 

My  dear  Journal,  quite  failed  in  controlling  my  heart, 

Or  the  flush  on  my  cheek?     That  I  felt  the  blood  start 

Through  the  swift  op'ning  valves  and  pulsate  through  my 

frame 
With  rapid  and  thrilling  vibrations,  'till  brain 
Was  reeling,  confused,  my  brow  throbbing  with  pain, 
And  my  thoughts  in  a  tumult  which  it  would  be  vain 
To  attempt  to  describe  ? 

I  was  glad  to  reach  home, 
And  at  last  find  myself  in  my  sanctum  alone. 
Well !  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  sit  down  and  write 
A  reply  to  the  note  I  had  from  him  last  night. 
And  in  the  first  place  did  my  best  to  dispel 
His  ideas  about  my  identity.     Well, 
Told  him  plainly,  in  fact,  I  thought  he  did  not  know 
Me  at  all  (an  excusable  falsehood,  although, 
I  am  certain)  ;  and  then,  somewhat  shortly,  I  fear — 
Couldn't  help  it,  though,  actress  I'm  not,  it  is  clear — 
I  asked  him  how  he  should  suppose  I  could  know , 
If  mine  were  the  blue  eyes  he  mentioned,  or  no. 
And  presumed  there  were  many  a  pair,  too,  that  looked 
That  way,  when  he  sang  ;  but  that  if  on  his  book 
His  were  placed  as  they  should  be,  he'd  not  be  aware 
How  many  looked  at  him.     Then  asked  him  right  there, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  73 

To  make  some  amends  for  my  crossness,  you  see, 

And  also  to  see  what  he'd  answer — if  he 

Could  a  place  for  a  meeting  appoint,  if  a  time 

I  should  mention.     And  as  to  that  hair  ring  of  mine, 

I  said  he  should  see  it,  half  promised  also  . 

He  should  help  me  the  pattern  select.     He  will  know 

It  is  all  idle  words,  I  presume.     And  I  then 

Asked  saucily  what  he  had  read  this  a.m. 

Now  I  wanted  to  introduce,  too,  in  some  way, 

The  discovery  which  I  this  morning  had  made, 

Ascertaining  thus  if  my  suspicions  were  true 

In  regard  to  it.     And,  though  I  pretty  well  knew 

He  woidd  tell  me  the  truth  if  I  asked  him  outright, 

Yet  I  did  not  know  but  it  possibly  might 

Be  best  to  assume  that  I  already  know 

What  indeed  I  am  hardly  assured  of.     And  so 

As  follows  I  wrote  : 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be 
Safe,  entirely — a  meeting  between  you  and  me  ? 
Or  am  I  mistaken  in  thinking  that  you 
Are  a  '  JBenedict '  Antony?     Please  tell  me  true. 
But  I'm  certain  I'm  not — think  I  know,  too,  by  sight, 
Your  wife  and  your  boy — and  I'm  sure  I  am  right. 
Does  she  know  of  our  correspondence  ?     To-day 
I  fancied  a  little  she  did.     Does  she  ?     Say  !  " 

I  don't  recollect  what  besides  this  I  wrote ; 
Nothing  more,  I  presume,  that  is  worthy  of  note. 
What  a  day  this  has  been!     Looking  back  now  it  seems 
Like  a  long,  ever-changing,  a  vague,  troubled  dream. 
And  my  mind  is  yet  cpaite  too  confused  to  resolve, 
Into  aught  that's  like  order,  the  thoughts  that  revolve, 
4 


74  STOLEN  WATEE8. 

In  such  entire  chaos  through  it,  and  restraint 

Or  control  'twould  be  vain  to  attempt.     I've  a  faint 

Sense  of  feeling  regret  that  I  ever  had  sent 

My  first  letter  to  him,  and  that  ever  I  went 

To  service  at  that  church,  or  ever  saw  him, 

And  some  indignation  that  I  had  not  been 

Informed  of  all  this  weeks  ago.     And  then,  too, 

There's  a  slight  thread  of  deep  disappointment  runs  through 

The  whole  warp  and  woof  of  my  mind^and  my  thoughts — 

Disappointment  in  both ;  in  myself,  that  I  sought 

Any  method  to  know  him  that  custom  denied. 

Disappointment  in  him,  that  he  ever  replied 

To  the  first  note  I  sent  him.     And  yet,  there  are  few 

Men  in  this  age  who  would  not,  I  fancy.     And,  too, 

He  supposed  certainly  from  the  first  that  I  knew 

All  there  was  to  be  told.     As  I  boastingly  wrote 

That  I  knew  all  about  him,  in  my  second  note; 

And  so,  he  is  not  much  to  blame,  after  all, 

And  'tis  useless  to  mourn  what  I  cannot  recall. 

No  service  this  evening  in  church ;  no  one  went 
Out  at  all,  I  believe ;  and,  as  for  me,  I  have  spent 
The  entire  evening  here  in  my  room,  all  alone 
With  my  thoughts  and  my  journal ;  and  though  I  must  own 
I  have  not  exceedingly  happy  been  here, 
More  so  elsewhere  I  could  not  have  been. 

But  I  fear 
My  sleep  will  be  broken.     Must  stop,  and  in  bed 
Try  and  rest  for  a  while  aching  heart,  weary  head. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  75 


December  9th,  18G3. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Good  evening,  my  Journal !   I  come  here  once  more 
To  my  sanctum,  with  drawn  shades  and  tightly  closed  doors, 
And  bright  light,  and  warm  fire,  with  the  table  before, 
With  drawings,  and  papers,  and  books  littered  o'er ; 
And  I'll  draw  up  my  chair,  and  will  snugly  ensconce 
Myself  in  its  depths,  and  forget  for  the  nonce 
All  the  cold  world  without ;  will  forget  all  but  you, 
My  dear  Journal,  my  trusty  friend,  confidante,  too, 
All  but  you,  and  the  one  I  am  writing  of  here — 
And  events  of  the  last  day  or  two. 

First,  my  dear, 
You  must  know  that  my  cousin  and  I  yesterday 
Went  a  visit  to  pay,  and  one  which,  by  the  way, 
Has  been  promised  for  long.     'Twas  to  Jersey  we  went, 
To  spend  the  whole  day,  although  with  the  intent 
Of  coming  back  home  before  night.     We'd  a  gay, 
Pleasant  time.     Left  for  home  rather  late,  on  the  way 
Passed  my  Antony's  store,  and  saw  he  was  not  in, 
And  we  did  not  enter.     Well !  I  had  not  been 
At  home  very  long  ere  some  young  people  called 
From  over  the  way,  and  were  here  nearly  all 
Of  the  rest  of  the  eve. 

Lorette  came  home  with  me, 
Stayed  all  night,  and  to-day  I  went  over  to  B. 
With  her  for  my  letter.     I  felt  rather  more 
Impatient  to  have  it  than  ever  before, 


76  STOLEN  WATEE8. 

As  a  matter  of  course.     I  have  more  than  a  few 
Correspondents,  both  ladies  and  gentlemen,  too ; 
But  somehow,  I  think  that  no  letters  I  ever 
From  others  received  could  afford  half  the  pleasure 
That  his  have ;  I'm  sure,  though  I  cannot  tell  why. 
The  Colonel's  are  quite  as  well  written,  and  I 
No  reason  can  see  why  his  should  be  so  much 
More  pleasing  than  others,  unless  'tis  the  touch 
Of  strangeness  and  mischief,  and  mystery,  too, 
That  gives  them  their  charm. 

It  has  been,  it  is  true, 
Very  fine  amusement  for  me  all  the  way  through, 
To  receive  all  these  letters,  and  know  just  the  source 
They  came  from,  while  certain  that  he  knew,  of  course, 
Of  me  nothing  at  all.     And  then  church  to  attend, 
From  Sabbath  to  Sabbath,  to  watch  him,  and  then 
Be  sure  that  he  could  not,  however  much  he 
Should  desire  to  know  who  his  unknown  friend  might  be  ; 
That  however  he  might  have  examined  the  face 
Of  each  lady  in  church  in  her  relative  place, 
That  out  of  so  many  he  could  not  select 
The  one  who  was  in  all  his  thoughts,  I  suspect, 
Whether  singing,  or  sitting  so  quiet  within 
The  alcove's  far  "  corner  "  secluded  and  dim. 
As  I  said,  I  believe  that  I  never  have  been 
More  desirous  of  having  a  letter  from  him, 
More  impatient  for  time  to  pass  rapidly  by, 
And  bring  me  the  anxiously  wished-for  reply 
To  my  last  note  to  him,  and  the  questions  contained 
Within  it. 

To  feel  one  must  carelessness  feign 


STOLEN  WATERS.  77 

When  burning  with  restless  impatience  within, 

May  be,  very  possibly,  good  discipline 

For  the  heart  and  the  soul,  but  makes  sad  work  with  temper 

And  nerves  I  am  certain.     At  least  I  may  venture 

To  say  'tis  with  me  thus  ;  suspense  I  cannot 

And  never  could  calmly  endure ;  and  then,  what 

Perhaps  made  me  more  anxious  than  ever  to  get 

His  letter  to-day,  was,  the  tinge  of  regret 

That  must  linger  around  all  our  intercourse,  past 

Or  to  come.     That  must  break  all  the  bonds,  first  or  last, 

That  now  bind  us  together  ;  and  make  us  again 

What  in  fact  we  are  yet,  and  we  still  must  remain — 

Strangers,  now  and  forever.     It  had,  too,  one  more 

Charm — his  letter  expected — than  any  before 

Have  possessed.     The  one,  too,  that  all  daughters  of  Eve, 

Who  the  dangerous  charm  have  desired  to  receive, 

Have  found,  to  their  cost,  its  possession  replete 

With  anguish  and  pain.     "  Stolen  waters  are  sweet.'''' 

(J?i«er-Sweet,  it  should  have  been),  and  those  who  would 

drink 
Of  the  bitter-sweet  potion  ought  never  to  shrink 
From  the  taste  of  the  dregs  they  are  certain  to  find 
'Neath  the  sparkle  and  foam. 

We  left  home  about  nine, 
And  when  Brooklyn  we   reached  found   the    Carrier   had 

been 
But  a  moment  before,  and  a  letter  from  him 
Lay  on  the  hall-table  awaiting  B.  S. 
I  was  not  very  sorry  to  find  it,  I  guess, 
And  'twas  opened  and  contents  perused  in  a  trice. 
'Twas  not  very  long,  and  not  nearly  as  nice 


78  STOLEN  WATERS. 

As  the  last  one,  I  think  ;  but  of  course  he'd  not  write 

With  as  much  warmth  and  pleasantness  quite,  as  he  might 

If  I  had  not  written  so  crossly  in  mine. 

So  I've  only  myself  to  find  fault  with,  this  time. 

'Twas  written,  indeed,  with  no  little  discreetness 

And  prudence — began  thus  :  "  Antonian  Sweetness  I" 

And  very  soon  after  commencing  he  wrote — 

"  The  pair  of  '  blue  eyes  '  of  which  lately  I  spoke 

I  have  met  very  often  upturned  to  my  own,  • 

But  more  summers  than  nineteen  o'er  that  head  has  flown, 

And  I  at  the  time  was  not  sinking.     Did  not 

Read  at  all  Sabbath  morn ;  with  my  own  pleasant  thoughts 

I  communed.     I'm  indeed  very  glad  I'm  to  see 

The  ring  when  you  get  it !    You  dare  not  let  me 

Help  the  pattern  select,- though." 

And  then  farther  on : 
"  I  believe  that  my  caution  is  not  wholly  gone, 
But  must  say  I  feel  safe  certainly."     And  again : 
"  But  when  I  shall  realize  all  the  sweet  strains 
Of  poetry  sent,  I  can  then  talk  much  more 
Of  safety  than  I  can  with  ease  write  before. 
You  are  not  mistaken  in  fancying  me 
To  be  married,  my  Bitter-Sweet !     How  could  you  be, 
If  the  family  you  know  by  sight,  as  you  said  ? 
And  farther,  the  party  does  not  know,  as  yet, 
Anything  about  this  correspondence."     Then  says, 
"  If  you  shall  a  time  appoint,  I  can  a  place.'* 

I  felt  rather  vexed  that  in  this  he  should  sent 
A  poem  from  Byron.     I  don't  think  he  meant 
Any  insult;  'twas  not,  though,  I  fancied,  just  what 
A  gentleman  should  to  a  lady  send — thought 


STOLEN  WATERS.  79 

I  would  write  a  rebuke  in  my  answer.     He'll  not 

Send  me  any  more  like  it,  I  think.     But  I  ought, 

As  I  wrote  him,  perhaps  have  expected  naught  better ; 

But  I  did,  and  I  told  him  that,  too,  in  my  letter. 

'Twas  of  course,  standard,  cmite,  and  I  doubt  not  that  he 

Never  thought  of  offending,  by  sending  to  me. 

My  rebuke,  though  decided,  was  gentle,  I  hope. 

At  the  end  of  the  poem  he  copied  he  wrote, 

"  No  farther  deponent  doth  say,  at  the  present. 

But  like  most  of  our  popular  stories — and  pleasant 

Some  think,  I  suppose,  as  so  many  read  them — 

This  is  also  '  continued'  to  be  !"     But  yet,  send 

The  rest  think  he  will  not.     Then  writes  at  the  close, 

"  I  shall  go  the  next  Sabbath  to  church,  I  suppose, 

And  there  in  my  '  corner  '  shall  think,  think  of  one 

Who  is  as  far  from  me,  because  yet  unknown, 

As  the  centre  is  from  the  circumf 'rence — my  own !" 

Then  in  closing  he  says, 

"  I  suppose  you  will  get 
This  to-morrow,  and  then  I  shall  also  expect 
To  hear  from  B.  S.  again  one  of  these  fine 
Days !  And  so  keep  thy  counsel  and  I  shall  keep  mine; 
That  is  '  entre-nous.' 

"  Ever  thine, 

"  <  Antony.' " 

I  remained  all  the  rest  of  the  day  o'er  to  B., 
And  answered  his  letter  before  I  came  home. 
I  can't  give  a  copy,  because  I  kept  none, 
But  my  note  was  more  pleasing  than  was  the  last  one. 
I  said  I  was  sure  that  I  knew  who  he  thought 
His  Bitter-Sweet  was.     Then  I  next  asked  him  what 


80  .  STOLEN   WATERS. 

Was  the  style  of  her  hat,  how  she  wore  her  hair  dressed, 
And  why  he  had  chosen  one  out  of  the  rest 
Who  was  more  than  nineteen,  when  I  told  him  before 
That  that  was  my  age,  just  nineteen  and  no  more. 
Then  as  follows  I  wrote : 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  read 
Very  much  the  last  Sabbath ;  but  did  there,  indeed, 
Any  bitter  compete  with  the  sweet  in  your  thoughts  ? 
Or  were  they  with  unalloyed  dulcitude  fraught  ?  " 
Then  in  answer  to  what  he  had  said  of  the  ring, 
And  appointment,  I  wrote, 

"  I  dare  do  anything 
But  meet  you,  my  Antony !     I  am  not  quite 
So  foolish,  I  think,  if  I  judge  myself  right, 
As  to  place  myself  yet  in  your  power  entire  ; 
And  so  you  can't  blame  me  if  I  shall  inquire 
Where  the  place  may  be,  ere  I  shall  mention  the  time, 
And  then  we  will  '  think  of  it,'  Antony  mine ! 
Should  you  like  me  much  better,  think  you,  my  dear  friend, 
If  you  knew  who  I  am  ?     And  would  you  till  the  end 
Of  two  months  to  come  be  quite  willing  to  wait 
Ere  you  see  me,  if  I  solve  the  mystery  great  ?  " 
Then  I  asked  him  if  tired  he  was  coming  to  be 
Of  our  correspondence  I     And  hoped  he'd  write  me 
If  that  was  the  case.     This  I  said  I  believe 
Just  after  the  censure  I  wrote.     Oh  !  some  leaves — 
Fragrant  leaves  from  my  cousin's  geranium — I 
Then  gathered ;  some  dainty  white  ribbon  to  tie 
With  a  "  true-lover's  knot"  the  sweet  leaves,  I  then  sent 
Dear  Lorette  to  her  room  to  search  for,  and  she  went, 
While  I  wrote  in  my  letter — "  I  send  you  some  leaves, 
And  a  kiss  hid  within  !  " 


STOLEN   WATERS.  81 

And  that  was,  I  believe. 
About  all  that  I  wrote,  or  at  least  all  that  I 
Now  remember.     No  comments  must  I,  by  the  by, 
Make  this  evening — it's  getting  so  late,  just  as  ever; 
The  next  time,  my  Journal  dear,  I  will  endeavor 
To  be  more  entertaining.     But  somehow,  to-night, 
A  task  it  has  been,  and  an  effort  to  write. 


December  Uth}  1863. 

SUNDAY. 

The  night  is  so  cold,  and  is  darksome  and  dreary, 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  seems  to  never  be  weary, 
The  trees  toss  without,  in  the  bleak  wintry  blast 
Their  bare  leafless  branches.     The  chill  wind  sweeps  past 
Just  now  with  a  sigh,  low  and  mournful,  and  then 
With  wild  sobs,  as  of  anguish,  or  deep,  bitter  pain, 
Then  rises  to  moans  and  shrill  shrieks  of  distress, 
Which,  slowly  subsiding,  grow  fitfully  less, 
And  merge  in  low  sighings  once  more.     And  the  rain, 
Chill,  drenching,  and  pitiless,  splashes  the  panes 
And  keeps  on  the  balcony  just  underneath 
A  restless  continual  patter.     The  eve 
Breathes  but  dampness,  discomfort,  and  darkness  j  within 
All  is  cheerfulness,  soft  light,  and  warmth. 

I  have  been 
Sitting  here  in  my  sanctum  a  little  time  past, 
And  trying  to  think.     But  the  turbulent  blast, 


82  STOLEN   WATERS. 

And  the  sound  of  the  fast-falling  rain  have  dispelled 

All  my  dreams,  which  were  both  "  sweet  and  baneful."     Oh, 

well! 
I'll  let  them  all  go,  and  the  gloom  of  the  night, 
And,  rousing  myself,  make  an  effort  to  write 
Of  events  of  the  day,  and  the  days  that  have  passed 
So  fleetly,  my  Journal,  since  chatting  here  last 
A  few  evenings  ago. 

Well,  last  Friday,  again, 
I  took  a  ride  over  to  Brooklyn ;  and  when 
I  arrived  there  I  found  that  Lorette  was  alone, 
And  she  would  not  consent  to  my  coming  back  home, 
At  least  tmtil  night ;  so  remained  there  all  day, 
And  we  did  have  a  nice,  pleasant  time,  I  must  say. 
She  is  a  dear  girl,  and  I  like  her  so  much ! 
Pretty,  graceful,  sweet-tempered,  with  just  a  slight  touch 
Of  sarcasm  and  wit  in  her  nature  ;  as  steel 
True  to  those  that  she  loves,  whether  woe  come  or  weal ; 
Obliging,  affectionate,  cheerful  and  sweet, 
In  her  nature  so  placid  and  calm  there  are  deeps 
Of  sympathy,  passion,  and  thought  only  those 
Of  the  friends  who  best  know  her  have  ever  supposed 
To  be  hidden  within  her  soft  heart. 

I  need  not, 
I  presume,  my  dear  Journal,  need  I  ?  mention  what 
Called  me  over  to  Brooklyn  again,  nor  need  I 
Assure  you  I  went  not  in  vain.     Indeed,  I 
Can  but  say  that  my  Antony  is  very  kind 
To  write  me  so  promptly.     The  one  sent  this  time 
I  fancied  to  be  more  than  usually  fine, 
And  gave  me  much  pleasure.     I'll  give  here  complete 
A  copy — commencing — 

"  My  own  Bitter-Sweet  ! 


STOLEN   WATERS.  83 

**  How  exceedingly  promptly  the  mails  do  arrive, 
And  bring  to  us  letters  most  welcome.     And  I've 
Received  yours  this  morning,  with  scented  sweets  fraught — 
How  fragrant  they  are  !      And  what  wonder  I  thought  • 
Them  rendered,  indeed,  doubly  so,  since  they've  been 
With  a  pair  of  sweet  lips  in  close  contact.     How,  then, 
Could  I  avoid  having  a  taste  of  them,  too  ? 
And  I  did  so,  in  fancy  at  least,  it  is  true, 
If  not  in  reality,  seeming  to  find 

With  the  leaves  still  some  lingering  sweetness  combined. 
Of  all  the  sweet  plants,  the  geranium  give  me ! 
Did  I  guess  who  the  blue-eyed  young  lady  might  be  ? 
I  thought  that  I  asked  might  it  be  so  and  so. 
Who  I  thought  that  you  were  do  you  really  know  ? 
Well,  who,  dear  B.  S.  ?     You  remember  you  said 
That  nineteen  bright  summers  had  passed  o'er  your  head, 
But  did  not  say  only,  or  how  many  more. 
I  thought  from  the  fact  of  your  saying  before 
How  much  you  had  seen  of  the  world,  and  then,  that 
An  innocent  intrigue's  your  life — I,  in  fact, 
Supposed  you  some  older.     At  what  age,  indeed, 
Do  young  ladies  commence  on  a  life  of  intrigue  ? 
I  cannot  describe  how  she  dresses  her  hair, 
Or  what  is  the  style  of  the  hat  which  she  wears.    . 
My  Bitter  Sweet,  how  do  you  think  that  of  these 
Trifling  things  a  poor  fellow  can  think,  when  he  sees 
A  pair  of  soft,  liquid,  blue  eyes  looking  through 
His  very  soul — while  they  appear  to  read,  too, 
His  innermost  thoughts  ? 

"  The  *  French '  sentence  I  sent 
Will  tell  you  I  think  that  there  was  bitter  blent 


84  STOLEN  WATERS. 

"With  the  sweet  in  my  thoughts.     And  could  you,  dear  B.  S., 

Read  that  in  my  face  ?     For  you  know  you  professed 

To  do  that  in  the  very  first  letter  you  sent. 

*  I  dare  anything  do  but  meet  you  ! '     Well !  then 

Let  me  know  who  you  are.     I  do  not  suppose  you 

So  foolish,  my  friend,  as  to  place  yourself  too 

Entire  in  my  power,  and  therefore  on  me 

You  can  call,  at  my  own  place  of  business,  you  see, 

In  open  day,  just  as  all  ladies  may  do, 

And  be  free,  too,  from  any  controlling  powyr. 

"You 
Mistake  in  supposing  I  did  not  believe 
What  you  wrote  in  the  first  letter  from  you  received. 
Believe  you  I  did  !  but  I  cannot  pass  by 
That  essential,  fine  quality,  caution,  which  I 
Am  sure, '  my  own  Bitter-Sweet,'  you  should  admire 
In  every  person  in  whom  you  desire 
Or  choose  to  confide. 

"Yes!  I  shall  better  far 
Like  you,  my  dear  friend,  when  I  know  ivho  you  are. 
And  if  you  will  tell  me,  I'll  try,  with  content, 
For  two  months,  or  longer,  to  wait  your  consent 
To  a  meeting  between  us ;  but  I  would  much  like 
The  favor  of  looking  at  you,  if  from  quite 
A  distance. 

"  I  must  assure  you,  I  regret 
The  poem  offended  ;  and  though  I  have  yet 
The  rest  of  it  written,  I'll  keep  it  at  home. 
When  I  <  weary  of  our  correspondence  '  become 
I  will  tell  you  at  once.     And  I  shall  not  offend 
You  willingly,  ever ;  and  hope  to  be  then 


STOLEN  WATERS.  85 

For  all  past  offences  forgiven.     I'm  not 

Perhaps,  my  B.  S.,  quite  so  bad  as  you  thought. 

And  you  do  me  injustice,  too,  I  must  protest, 

In  saying  you  '  might  have  expected  no  less ! 

You  certainly  did  not  expect  it  to  be — 

The  poem — original,  did  you,  with  me  ? 

I  never  have  had  that  opinion  extreme 

Of  women  that  some  profess — as  will  be  seen 

In  Posthumous  tirade  in  Shakspeare's  '  Cymbeline,' 

And  Dryden's  translation  of  Juvenal's  Satire 

On  woman — an  author  that  many  admire. 

No!  my  ' ■charity''  's  almost  as  vast  in  extent 

As  the  universe ;  neither  would  I  with  intent 

Wound  your  feelings,  believe  me  !     And  so  I  will  keep 

1  To  be  called  for ' — the  poetry — My  Bitter-Sweet, 

Or  to  the  Dead-Letter  Office  will  transmit. 

"  Is  it  not  bitter  cold  to-day  ?     How  sweet  to  sit 
Beside  a  good  fire,  listing  to  the  chill  wind 
As  it  whistles  without.     I  will  not  at  this  time 
Inflict  on  you  any  words  further  of  mine. 
With  one  good  inhalation  from  your  fragrant  leaves. 
Until  the  next  time  I  trust  you  will  believe 
I  am  still 

"  Your  own 

"  Antony ! 

"  To  Bitter  Sweet." 

That  was  all !  and  I  certainly  need  not  repeat 
What  I  said  once  before :  that  not  one  I've  received 
Has  more  pleasure  afforded  than  this.     I  believe 
There  have  been  not  a  great  many  moments  to-day 
That  he  has  been  out  of  my  thoughts. 

I  must  say 


86  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  am  pleased  at  the  way  he  received  my  reproof, 

And  perhaps  I  did  do  him  injustice.     In  truth, 

He  has  in  large  measure  one  virtue  most  rare 

In  this  weak  sinful  world,  if  all  else  that  is  fair 

And  good,  he  is  wanting  in.     Sweet  Charity, 

That  no  evil  doth  think !     Of  the  fair,  divine  three, 

The  rarest  and  greatest  is  sweet  Charity ! 

I  guess  he  is  not  such  a  very  bad  boy, 

After  all !     And  so  that  afternoon  was  employed, 

A  part  of  it,  writing  an  answer  to  his. 

And  I  mailed  it  ere  I  returned  home.     But  it  is 

Impossible  that  I  should  now  recollect 

What  I  wrote  in  reply  to  his  letter,  except 

That  I  gave  him  some  hopes  of  receiving  next  time 

My  name  and  address. 

I've  not  made  up  my  mind 
If  I'll  in  reality  tell  him  or  not. 
I  think  that  I  shall — well !  I  hardly  know  what 
I  shall  do  !      I  have  not  at  any  time  thought 
I  should  tell  him  at  all.     I  suppose  that  I  ought 
Not  have  led  him  to  think  I  would  some  time  disclose 
What  I  firmly  believe  that  he  pretty  well  knows 
Even  now,  were  it  not  my  intent  to  do  so. 
And  it  certainly  was  not.     But  then — I  don't  know 
But  somehow  one  thing  and  another  has  led 
Me  to  say  what  perhaps  I  ought  never  have  said, 
And  promise  much  more  than  I  meant  to  fulfil, 
Or  perhaps  than  I  mean  even  yet  to  do.     Still, 
It  seems  hardly  fair,  or  just  either,  to  him, 
To  cheat  him  like  this ;  for  he's  certainly  been 
Most  kind  and  most  generous  all  the  way  through, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  87 

And  J"  want  to  be  quite  as  hon'rable,  too, 

So  I  really  scarcely  know  what  I  will  do. 

And  then,  there  is  still  one  more  motive,  more  strong, 

Perhaps,  than  all  others,  which  I  have  been  long 

Only  half-conscious  of  in  my  innermost  soul, 

But  which,  nevertheless,  has  through  nearly  the  whole 

Of  our  correspondence  so  long,  been  the  power 

By  which  I've  been  led  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, 

'Till  I  am  where  I  am.     And  that  strong  motive  is 

A  desire  just  for  once  to  place  my  hand  in  his, 

To  listen  just  once  to  his  soft,  tender  tones, 

In  kind  words  intended  for  my  ear  alone. 

Just  for  once,  possibly,  to  be  clasped  to  his  breast, 

"  With  a  feeling  of  shelter  and  infinite  rest !  " 

Only  just  for  a  moment ! — Is  it  very  wrong? 

'Twould  be  something  to  think  of  through  all  my  life  long. 

'Twould  be,  I  suppose,  hungry  heart  satisfied 

With  sweet  fruit  from  the  tree  that's  forbidden,  supplied  ; 

Raging  thirst  quenched   by  sweet  "  stolen  waters"  which 

flow 
From  a  fountain  that  hides  depths  most  bitter  below. 
Oh !   one  other  thing  I  remember  I  wrote — 
That  is,  in  the  answer  I  sent  to  his  note — 
And  that  was  to  try  the  next  Sabbath  and  see 
If  he  could  not  discover  who  B.  S.  might  be. 
I  brought  from  Lorette's  some  geranium  leaves 
To  carry  to  church  to-day,  morning  or  eve, 
Intending  to  let  him  observe  them,  while  I 
Should  note  the  effect  in  his  face.     By  the  by, 
I  believe  he  possesses  a  quite  tell-tale  face. 

Well !  this  forenoon  found  me  in  my  usual  place 


88  STOLEN  WATERS. 

In  church,  and  he  also  in  his.     I  forgot 

This  morning  to  carry  my  leaves,  so  did  not, 

Of  course,  my  experiment  tiy.     Mr.  S. 

Announced  this  a.m.  that  by  special  request 

He  intended  this  eve  to  the, sermon  repeat 

Delivered  Thanksgiving  day  last.     From  my  seat 

I  listened,  and  raised  to  my  Antony's  face 

My  eyes.     At  that  moment  he  turned  in  his  place 

And  looked  down  at  me.     With  a  glance  in  which  plain 

Was  a  consciousness,  neither,  I  think,  could  restrain, 

Our  eyes  met,  for  an  instant,  then  each  turned  away. 

So  much  for  this  morning ! 

It  rained  the  whole  day, 
And  was  gloomy  enough.     But  I  did  not  stay  home 
This  evening,  and  father  and  I  went  alone. 
Just  before  service  opened,  my  Antony  came 
To  the  front,  with  some  music ;  and  then  he  remained 
There  for  some  little  time ;  and  I  raised  from  my  book, 
Where  they  rested,  the  leaves  to  my  lips,  and  then  looked 
With  full,  steady  glance  in  the  eyes  that  were  bent 
That  moment  on  me.     The  act  told,  as  I  meant 
That  it  should  do !     The  light  was  quite  strong,  and  the 

space 
Between  us  was  short.     From  my  book  to  my  face 
His  eyes  my  hand  followed,  and  as  the  sweet  leaves 
Touched  my  lips,  and  he  saw  what  I  held,  I  believe 
A  change  more  decided,  and  sudden,  and  plain, 
And  transforming,  too,  o'er  a  man's  face  never  came 
Than  at  that  moment  swept  over  his.     In  my  eyes 
He  looked  with  a  full,  searching  glance.     Slight  surprise, 
Satisfaction,  and  wonder,  and  pleasure,  expressed 
In  the  soft,  lustrous  depths  of  his  own.     While  compressed 


STOLEN   WATERS.  89 

"Were  his  lips,  very  slightly,  in  efforts  most  vain 
To  hide  the  emotion,  betrayed  yet  so  plain, 
In  flushed  cheek,  and  dark,  sparkling  eye. 

As  for  me, 
I  was,  I  believe,  so  desirous  to  see 
The  effect  of  my  act  upon  him,  I  did  not 
My  own  agitation  give  one  moment's  thought, 
Or  make,  then,  the  slightest  attempt  to  control 
My  heart  or  jny  face.     And  I  doubt  not  the  whole 
Confirmation  of  all  he  would  know  he  could  read 
In  my  swift-changing  cheek,  tell-tale  eye,  and,  indeed, 
More  than  all,  in  the  sweet  leaves  I  held. 

It  all  passed 
In  a  moment,  and  he  turned  away,  too,  at  last, 
To  his  seat  in  the  "  corner."     And  how  I  would  like 
To  know  what  he  thought,  as,  with  back  to  the  light 
He  waited  the  signal  to  sing. 

Well!  to-night, 
All  during  the  sermon,  he  sat  quite  in  front, 
And  not  in  the  "  corner  "  as  he  has  been  wont. 
But  he  sat  looking  toward  the  preacher,  this  time, 
But  frequently  glancing  from  his  face  to  mine. 
And  during  the  last  prayer  abruptly  he  turned 
And   looked    down   full    at   me.     How   my    foolish    cheek 

burned ! 
'Neath  his  glances  so  earnest,  and  thrilling,  and  sweet! 
My  eyes  faltered  and  drooped,  quite  unable  to  meet 
The  passion  in  his,  as  with  head  on  his  hand 
He  sat  motionless  quite,  I  thought  looking  more  grand 
And  handsome  than  ever  before.     The  soft  light 
In  his  fine  speaking  eye,  new,  to  me  at  least,  quite, 


90  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  smile  on  his  lips,  both  of  which  added  much 
To  his  ever-fine  face,  would  have  given  a  touch 
Of  beauty  and  sweetness  to  one  that  was  plain, 
And  his  made  exquisitely  pleasing.     'Twere  vain 
To  think  that  he  was  not  enlightened.     He  knows 
His  Bitter-Sweet  well  enough  now,  I  suppose. 
I'm  impatient  to  have  his  next  letter,  and  see 
What  he'll  write  about  it. 

I  some  notes  took  of  the 
Fine  (?)  sermon,  this  evening,  and  wrote  to  him  too. 
He  looked  down  and  saw  me  !     Will  that  be  a  clue, 
When  he  sees  how  'tis  dated — "  In  Church,  Sunday  Eve"?- 
To  induce  him  with  more  firmness  still  to  believe 
That  I'm  his  unknown  correspondent  ? 

My  leaves 
I  left  in  my  book  at  church. 

Hark !  it  still  rains, 
And  the  chill  wind  still  rattles  and  beats  at  the  panes. 
The  night  slowly  wanes,  and  is  "  cold,  dark,  and  dreary," 
And  of  writing  and  thinking,  I  am,  oh,  so  weary  ! 


December  lbth,  1863. 

TUESDAY. 

It  is  evening  again,  and  once  more  I  am  here 
For  a  nice  little  confab  with  you,  Journal  dear, 
Ere  I  seek  the  repose  I  am  conscious  I  need, 
And  I  ought  to  do  so  at  this  moment,  indeed ! 
My  watch  I  will  place  very  close  to  the  spot 
Where  my  book  lies,  and  when  it  is  twelve  I  will  stop. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  91 

To-day  we  expected  from  Jersey  some  friends, 

But  they  failed  to  appear.     But  Lorette  this  P.M. 

Came  over  and  brought  me  a  letter  again 

From  him,  my  "  own  Antony."     And  I  was  glad 

To  get  it.     But,  somehow,  I  always  am  sad 

After  having  a  letter  from  him.     I  cannot, 

I  am  sure,  give  the  reason  for  it.     My  first  thoughts 

Are  ever  most  pleasant  and  sweet,  I  must  own, 

Though  the  sweet  soon  dies  out,  and  the  bitter  alone 

Remains  of  the  stolen  draught. 

Notes  from  him  I 
Bead  again  and  again,  besides  keeping  them  by 
Me  the  whole  time,  each  one,  till  the  next  one  arrives ; 
Yet,  though  they  are  all  I  desire,  all  the  time 
My  spirits  are  very  uncertain,  I  find. 
For  instance,  one  day  they're  remarkably  fine 
(Most  often  the  day  that  his  notes  are  received), 
And  the  next  even  indigo  'd  make,  I  believe, 
A  white  mark  upon  me.     And,  too,  this  state  of  mind, 
Or  temper,  or  heart,  or  whatever,  in  fine, 
It  deserves  to  be  called,  has  been  constantly  mine, 
And  not  only  of  late,  but  through  all  of  the  time 
Very  nearly  of  our  correspondence.     I've  found 
"  The  heart  cannot  always  control,  or  account 
For  the  feelings  which  sway  it."     And  also  must  own 
"  That  I  think,  as  I  swing  on  the  gate  here  alone, 
How  the  sweetness  of  horehound  will  soon  all  die  out, 
"While  the  bitter  still  keeps  on  and  on !  " 

Well,  about 
His  letter,  which  lies  here  this  moment  by  me : 
First — "  Sunday,  December  13th,  'G3, 


92  STOLEN  WATERS. 

In  the  c  corner,' "  was  how  it  was  dated.     I  thought 
It  quite  a  coincidence — and  was  it  not? — 
That  he  should  that  morning  have  written  to  me 
In  church,  and  then  I,  who  of  course  did  not  see 
Or  dream  of  his  having  done  any  such  thing, 
Should  that  very  same  evening  have  written  to  him, 
And  I  also,  in  church.     I  can  give  here  to-night 
A  few  extracts  alone.     In  one  place  thus  he  writes  : 
"  What  an  unpleasant  day !  yet  it  may  not  he  qiute 
So  to  those  who  have  hearts  that  are  careless  and  light. 
Where  are  you  to-day  ?     Why  do  I  not  see  you  here 
This  morning  at  service  as  usual,  my  dear  ?  " 
(Just  as  if  he  had  not  known  so  well  I  was  there ! 
Dissembler  !  that  I,  too,  was  sitting  right  where, 
Every  time  that  he  bent  slightly  forward,  and  raised 
From  his  book  or  his  paper  his  fine  eye,  my  face 
Was  almost  the  first  thing  arresting  his  gaze.) 
And  then  he  went  on  : 

"  We  shall  have  once  again 
This  evening  the  Thanksgiving  sermon,  my  friend. 
And  you  cannot  relish  that  much,  I  suppose ; 
But  then,  if  we  do  not,  it  seems  there  are  those 
Who  do,  as  it  is  by  especial  request 
The  rev'rend  this  evening  repeats  it." 

The  rest 
Of  that  page,  and  a  part  of  the  next,  is  of  no 
Especial  importance,  so  let  it  all  go. 
Near  the  end  of  the  third  page  he  writes — 

"  Do  not  fear 
To  come  in  and  see  me,  for  if  I'm  not  here 
A  lady  most  certainly  never  need  be 
At  a  loss  for  excuses  for  entering  the 


STOLEN  WATERS.  93 

Public  stores,  and  which  hundreds  habitually 
Are  visiting.     So  there's  no  reason,  you  see, 
My  Bitter-Sweet,  why  you  can't  call  upon  me. 
No  !  I'm  not  getting  weary,  believe  me  you  will, 
Of  reading  your  letters,  but  look  for  them  still 
With  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  hope  and  expect 
The  favor  to  have  of  receiving  the  next 
With  the  knowledge  of  your  entire  name." 

Then  he  says, 
"  Prayer  now  has  commenced  !  I  must  stop,  my  B.  S., 
You  will  have  difficulty  in  reading,  I  guess, 
This  letter,  and  find  but  a  little,  I  fear, 
To  amuse,  or  instruct,  or  to  benefit  here ; 
But  anticipate  one  from  me,  one  of  these  days, 
Somewhat  better." 

I  think  I've  forgotten  to  say 
This  was  written  in  pencil ;  iu  ink,  then,  he  writes : 
"  Monday. — How  it  does  rain  !    is  it  not  enough,  quite, 
To  give  one  the  '  blues '  ?  and  the  sermon  last  night 
Might  perhaps  be  the  means  of  assisting  it,  too  ; 
Might  it  not,  my  dear  friend  ?     Or  how  is  it  with  you  ? 
But  I  can  this  morning  do  nothing  but  mope, 
And  writing  is  oixt  of  the  question.     I  hope 
To  hear  from  you  soon,  and  am 

"  Ever  your  own 

"  Antony. 
"  To  my  Bitter-Sweet !  " 

I  might  have  known 
He'd  not  say  a  word  in  this  letter  of  what 
He  saw  Sunday  eye,  though  I  know  he  cannot 
Help  but  be  pretty  sure  who  his  Bitter-Sweet  is. 
But  he  made  a  slight  guess  in  one  letter  of  his, 


94  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  I  answered  so  crossly  he  thinks  he  will  let ' 
Me  tell  him  the  whole,  when  he  knows,  I  expect. 
I  wrote  him  at  twilight  before  Lorette  went, 
Although  rather  briefly,  but  with  it  I  sent 
The  note  I  had  written  in  chtirch,  Sunday  eve, 
And  which  he  to-morrow  forenoon  should  receive. 
Upstairs  I  had  just  come,  I  wrote  him,  to  find 
A  pattern ;  and,  stealing  a  moment  of  time 
(Notwithstanding  I'd  visitors  waiting  below), 
On  the  floor  of  my  sanctum  was  then  sitting  low, 
And,  close  by  the  window,  was  trying  to  write 
A  few  lines  to  him  by  the  fast-fading  light. 
I  sent  him  the  wished-for  address  at  the  close, 
Though  I  told  him  above  he  would  not,  I  supposed, 
If  I  told  him  my  name,  know  me  then  any  better 
Than  he  would  do  before  the  receipt  of  my  letter. 
As  he  said  he  ne'er  knew  how  a  lady  was  dressed, 
I  did  not  see  how  I  could  tell  him  the  rest. 
And  then,  just  to  tease  him,  I  asked  him  when  he 
Expected  to  know  who  I  am — what  of  me 
He  thought.     Also  wrote  that  to  service  I  went 
On  last  Sabbath  morning  as  usual ;  and  sent 
At  the  close  of  the  letter  my  love  to  my  friend. 
I  shall  look  for  his  answer  on  Thursday  a.m. 
I  am  glad  I  have  not  any  longer  to  go 
All  the  way  o'er  to  B.  for  his  letters,  although 
He  has  been  very  kind  indeed,  always  to  write 
Just  when  I  requested,  and  so  that  I  might 
Have  never  to  go  there  in  vain. 

Well,  to-night 
My  brother  and  wife  were  in  town,  and  here,  too, 
To  dinner  tins  evening.     Just  twelve  !    I  am  through 


STOLEN  WATERS.  $$ 

December  17th,  18G3. 

THURSDAY. 

How  stormy  a  day  !  from,  the  earliest  dawn 
The  clouds  have  bent  low,  swiftly  showering  down 
The  soft,  fleecy  snow-flakes.     All  nature  around 
Seems  just  to  have  donned  a  fresh  mantle  of  white, 
So  spotlessly  pure,  and  so  downy  and  light — 
So  dazzlingly  lovely,  this  "beautiful  snow" — 
The  air  filling  all,  shrouding  all  things  below, 
With  a  soft-falling  vesture  more  dainty  and  fair 
Than  any  fine  lady  can  e'er  hope  to  wear. 
Yet  this  white,  vestal  raiment,  unsullied  by  aught 
Unlovely  or  tainting — oh,  what  a  sad  thought ! 
This  snow  that's  "  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 
Must  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by, 
Must  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of  feet, 
'Till  it  blends  with  the  filth  in  the  horrible  street." 

This  day  has  been  one  of  sensations,  to  me 
Rather  new  and  peculiar ;  have  half  seemed  to  be 
In  a  sweet,  happy  dream  all  day  long.     I  presume 
My  spirits  will  be  at  their  lowest  ebb  soon, 
Quite  likely  to-morrow.     There  always  must  be 
With  them  a  reaction  ;  and  one  day  to  me 
Of  light-hearted  joy ousness,  pleasure,  and  glee, 
Is  sxire  to  result  in  depression  and  gloom ; 
And  this  no  exception  will  be,  I  presume. 
By  halves  I  do  nothing ;  and  when  I  am  gay 
No  one  can  be  livelier ;  and,  I  must  say, 


96  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  when  I'm  depressed,  no  one  ever  could  be 
In  the  depths  of  despondency  lower  than  me ; 
And  it  takes  such  a  slight,  such  a  small,  trifling  thing 
To  make  me  unhappy,  on  one  hand,  or  bring 
A  smile  to  my  lips,  and  a  light  to  my  eye — 
Joy  and  glee  to  my  heart.  * 

Yery  happy  was  I 
To  perceive  it  to  be  in  the  usual  clear 
And  well-known  handwriting  of  Antony  dear 
The  note  was  addressed  which  was  handed  to  me, 
When  I  this  forenoon  the  door  opened  to  see 
The  carrier  there  in  the  pitiless  storm — 
The  feathery  snow-flakes  all  over  his  form 
So  lavishly  showered — he  looked  almost  like 
A  snow-bank  himself.     With  \musual  delight 
I  ran  in  the  parlor  at  once  with  my  note, 
To  read,  all  alone,  what  my  Antony  wrote. 
He's  getting  impatient,  despondent,  some,  too ! 
And  I  cannot  wonder  much  at  it,  'tis  true. 
I  have  kept  him  now  quite  a  long  time  in  suspense 
Had  no  little  amusement  at  his  sole  expense. 
But  patient  he's  been,  indeed,  nevertheless; 
Much  more  so  than  I  should  have  been,  I  confess; 
And  he  does  well  deserve  the  reward,  I  must  say, 
Which  he'll  get  with  the  letter  I  wrote  him  to-day. 
But  first  I've  a  few  words  to  say  of  his  note ; 
'Twas  not  very  long,  and  I  fancied  he  wrote 
A  little  despondingly,  as  I  believe 
I  have  said  once  before.     First  he  writes  : 

"I  received 
Yours  this  morning,  and  your  address  also  with  it, 
And  shall  govern  myself  in  accordance  therewith." 


STOLEN   WATERS.  97 

That  is  all  that  lie  says  about  that.     Next  replies 
To  some  trifling  inquiries  I  made,  and  then  writes 
Shortly : 

"  How  can  I  tell,  think  you,  when  I  expect 
To  know  you  ?     To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  suspect 
That  I  never  shall  know  you  at  all,  as  I  do 
Not  have  any  means  to  find  out,  and  as  you 
Do  not  choose  to  inform  me.     And  then,  as  to  what 
I  think  of  you — think  that  you  wish — do  you  not  ? 
To  have  some  amusement,  occasionally, 
By  a  few  letters  writing,  perhaps  just  to  see 
What  answers  there  may  be  returned.     Possibly, 
That  unsatisfactory  oft  they  may  be  ; 
But  you  must  remember  that  I  am  still  quite 
In  the  dark,  as  to  knowing  to  whom  I  now  write. 
To-day  I  am  feeling  especially  blue, 
But  the  reason  for  it  cannot  give ;  and  can  you  f 
I  am  pleased  to  find  you  are  so  punctual  in  your 
Attendance  at  church,  my  B.  S.,  I  am  sure  ! 
But  where  do  you  sit,  and  what  mean  you  to  wear 
The  next  Sabbath  morning  if  you  should  be  there  ? 
I  hope  that  you  had  an  agreeable  seat 
On  the  floor  of  your  '  sanctum,'  my  own  Bitter-Sweet, 
When  writing  to  me.     How  would  you,  at  the  time, 
Have  liked  some  one  to  lean  on  ?  and  did  you  then  find 
The   pattern  you   sought?    Guess  your  friends  must  have 

thought 
It  took  you  a  long  time  indeed,  did  they  not  ?  " 
And  then  right  after  this  quite  abruptly  he  writes : 
"  '  And  these  are  the  questions  I  ask  day  and  night, 
Must  my  soul  never  once  taste  such  exquisite  delight  ? '  " 
5 


98  STOLES  WATERS. 

Then  with  sarcasm  writes,  that  he  thinks  it  indeed 

Must  be  most  entertaining  his  letters  to  read ; 

But  should  judge  'twould  as  much  satisfaction  bestow 

Some  to  read  from  an  old  letter-writer,  as  those 

Most  brilliant  effusions  were  never  addressed 

To  any  one  person,  and  must  be  confessed 

That  his  were  to  no  one,  or  what  was  to  him 

The  same  thing,  an  unknown.     And  then  says  in  closing  : 

"  But  the  fact  is,  that  I  can  to-day  nothing  do 

But  growl ;  and  for  fear  of  inflicting  on  you 

More  of  this,  my  ill  nature,  will  bid  you  adieu, 

With  the  kindest  regards  to  my  own  Bitter-Sweet, 

Of 

"  Your 

"  Antony." 

Then  enclosed  were  two  neat 
New  Year's  cards  ;  and  within  the  small  plain  space  of  one 
Was  "Antony  "  printed,  and  prettily  done; 
The  other  was  blank,  and  on  that  one  I  wrote 
"  Sitter-  Sweet ,"  and  shall  send  it  back  with  my  next  note. 
I  early  this  afternoon  sat  down  to  write 
A  reply  to  his  last,  and  intended  to-night 
To  mail  it,  but  it  was  so  stormy  all  day 
'Twas  impossible  I  should  go  out. 

I  must  say 
That  when  I  commenced  I'd  not  given  one  thought 
As  to  whether  or  not  I  should  tell  him  of  what 
He'd  become  so  desirous  to  know.     I  well  knew 
By  the  tone  of  his  last  that  it  never  would  do 
To  play  with  him  longer ;  and  that  I  must  write 
And  give  him  at  once  the  entire  truth  outright ; 


STOLEN  WATERS.  99 

Or  write  him  no  more.     But  they've  now  come  to  be — 

His  letters — almost  necessary  to  me. 

At  least  I  should  miss  them,  oh !  so  very  much, 

If  I  ceased  to  receive  them.     And  therefore,  with  such 

A  feeling  or  thought  uppermost  in  my  mind, 

When  to  write  I  began,  is  it,  dear  Journal  mine, 

Any  wonder  that  all  scruples  were  for  the  time 

Swept  completely  aside,  as  with  fond,  eager  hand, 

I  raised  to  my  lips  the  forbidden  draught,  and, 

While  quaffing  the  waters  so  sweet  at  the  brim 

Of  the  cup,  quite  forgot  that  far  down,  deep  within 

The  dregs,  I  a  bitter  might  find  to  be  more    - 

Intense  than  in  any  glass  I  had  before 

Attempted  to  drain  ? 

So  my  Journal,  you  see, 
In  the  letter  which  lies  on  the  table  by  me, 
"  Signed,  sealed,"  not  "  delivered,"  my  dear  friend  will  find 
His  suspicions  confirmed,  and  at  last  have  his  mind 
From  all  farther  doubt  and  uncertainty  free. 
How  many  a  thought  sent  to  me  there  will  be 
Between  the  receipt  of  this  note  and  the  time 
For  service  on  Sunday  forenoon.     As  to  mine — 
Oh  !  my  thoughts  are  constantly  with  him,  to-day, 
And  all  other  days,  in  fact,  now  and  alway. 
And  I'm  more  impatient,  too,  than  I  can  tell 
For  next  Sabbath  morning's  arrival. 

Oh,  well— 
The  clock's  striking  !  hark  !  can  it  be  it  is  twelve  ? 
A  few  words  of  my  letter,  and  then  I  am  through. 
I  wrote  at  some  length,  and  quite  charmingly,  too, 
I  flatter  myself !  or  I  certainly  meant 
It  should  be  quite  as  pleasing  as  any  I'd  sent. 


100  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  told  him  that  I  had  commenced  "just  for  fun," 

This,  our  correspondence,  some  time  since  begun  ; 

That  I'd  had  no  intentions,  in  fact,  any  time, 

Notwithstanding  my  various  promises  fine, 

To  allow  him  to  have  any  knowledge  of  me 

He  had  not  already  ;  that  is,  unless  he 

Should  himself  ascertain  who  his  B.  S.  might  be. 

I  thought  hardly  fair  would  it  be,  though,  to  him, 

To  treat  him  like  that,  as  he'd  certainly  been 

Very  kind,  and  quite  hon'rable  all  the  way  through ; 

And  so  to  his  honor  I'd  trust  in  this,  too. 

Then  I  told  him  what  'twas  my  intention  to  wear 

The  next  Sunday  morning,  and  also  just  where 

I  should  sit — and  that  is,  only  one  seat  ahead 

Of  Mrs. ,  his  wife,  at  her  right  hand.     Then  said — 

"  It  will,  of  course,  storm  the  next  Sabbath,  but  I 
Shall  be  there."     And  so  will  he,  too,  by  the  by, 
I  imagine. 

I  wrote  I  did  have  on  the  floor 
Of  my  "  sanctum  "  an  easy  seat,  when  I  before 
Wrote  to  him ;  but  I  would  have  indeed  greatly  liked 
To  had  some  one  to  lean  upon  ;  but,  if  it  might 
Have  been  that  the  only  one  on  whom  I  care 
To  lean  for  support  had  been  present,  that  there 
No  occasion  would  been  for  my  writing. 

Oh,  dear ! 
I'm  so  very  fatigued  I  must  stop  now  and  here, 
And  leave  all  the  rest  until  next  Sunday  night, 
When  perhaps  I  may  have  something  pleasant  to  write. 


STOLEN  WATERS..  101 


December  20th,  1863. 


SUNDAY. 


Sabbath  evening  once  more,  and  it's  now  half-past  ten. 
I've  been  sitting  right  here  for  an  hour,  with  my  pen 
In  my  hand,  and  my  journal  wide  open,  upon 
The  table  before  me,  the  day  that's  just  gone 
Reviewing,  and  trying  to  bring  into  form 
Its  events  and  emotions,  in  order  to  write 
With  coherent  distinctness  of  them  here  to-night — 
Of  a  day  that  has  been  one  long  dream  of  delight — 
This  Sabbath,  the  twentieth  day  of  December, 
Eighteen  sixty-three! 

But  the  fast-paling  embers 
In  the  grate  are  now  giving  me  warning,  indeed, 
My  writing  to  do  with  all  possible  speed, 
Or  be  left  in  the  cold.     And  so  I  will  proceed. 

When  I  wrote  here  last  Thursday,  I  spoke  of  the  storm 
Which  was  raging  without,  and  the  next  (Friday)  morn 
It  had  not  much  abated  ;  but,  turning  to  rain, 
Made  horrible  travelling.     I  waited  in  vain, 
Almost  the  whole  day,  for  a  pleasanter  state 
Of  weather  and  walking,  until  'twas  so  late 
I  feared  that  if  I  should  much  longer  delay, 
That  he  would  not  my  letter  receive  yesterday. 
So  with  rubbers  and  water-proof  nicely  equipped, 
Regardless  of  rain  or  of  slush,  on  my  trip 
A  few  blocks  farther  down  at  length  started  to  mail 
My  last  letter  to  him,  that  he  might  without  fail 


102  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Receive  it  before  this  a.m.     And  as  there 

Is  a  post-office  box  near  Ed.  Vamey's  store,  where 

I  have  often  deposited  letters  before, 

I  thought  that  to  it  I  would  trust  just  once  more. 

I  went  in  to  see  him  a  moment  as  I 

Wished  to  purchase  some  trifles — and  passing  right  by. 

I  don't  like  him,  though,  much,  and  his  manner  I  think 

Is  too  tender  by  half,  and  I  always,  too,  shrink 

From  the  touch  of  his  hand,  or  the  glance  of  his  eye. 

And  yet  I  am  sure  that  I  cannot  tell  why. 

I  rarely  shake  hands  with  him,  did,  though,  to-day, 

And  he  held  mine  so  long  that  I  drew  it  away 

Somewhat  rudely,  I  fear,  did  my  errands  as  soon 

As  I  could  and  came  home.     And  he  thinks,  I  presume, 

I  am  haughty  and  cold ;  but  I  cannot  help  it, 

And  I  should  like  him  better,  indeed,  I  admit, 

If  he  treated  me  somewhat  less  warmly.     But  there  ! 

Let  him  pass  ! 

This  bright  morning  was  brilliant  and  fair 
As  one  could  desire.     Just  a  light  depth  of  snow, 
Newly-fallen,  quite  covered  the  ice  formed  below, 
By  the  alternate  storms  of  a  few  days  ago, 
And  gleamed  purely  white  'neath  the  warm,  ardent  glow 
Of  the  bright  morning  sun  ;  and  like  huge  bridal  loaves, 
In  the  Park  the  large  flower-mounds  temptingly  rose. 
While  the  boughs  overhead  drooped  beneath  the  soft  weight 
Of  their  dainty,  translucent,  and  glittering  freight. 
Not  a  cloud  to  be  seen  in  the  whole  arch  of  blue 
Rendered  perfect  an  otherwise  exquisite  view. 

Of  course  I  was  promptly  at  church  this  A.M., 
And  my  Antony.     Gertrude  went  also,  and  when 


STOLEN  WATERS.  103 

From  the  rack  slie  had  taken  a  hymn-book,  I  then 

Discovered  what  I  had  not  noticed  before — 

And  then  not  until  she  was  looking  it  o'er — 

A  small  piece  of  paper  inserted  between 

The  leaves  of  the  book.     In  a  moment,  I  ween, 

It  flashed  o'er  my  mind  what  it  was ;  and  I  knew 

Very  well  that  my  Antony  placed  it  there.     Drew 

It  forth,  and  I  found  my  suspicions  confirmed, 

For  on  one  side  I  read  "  Bitter- Sweet"  and  then  turned 

And  the  same  on  the  other  side  found  written,  too, 

Placed  there  at  rehearsal  last  eve,  I  conclude. 

I  think  'twas  indeed  scarcely  marked  by  Gertrude : 

At  least  she  said  nothing  about  it. 

I  placed 
The  paper  at  once  in  my  muff,  at  his  face 
Glancing  up,  and  he,  too,  was  then  "looking  at  me, 
But  at  once  turned  away,  so  I  know  not  if  he 
Had  noticed  my  finding  the  paper  or  not. 
He  sat  at  the  front  to-day,  just  as  I  thought 
And  expected  he'd  do — both  this  morning  and  eve. 
But  my  pen  can  but  fail  to  describe,  I  believe, 
What  I  then  saw  and  felt  if  I  make  the  attempt, 
I  think  I  must  own  that  I  did  not  repent, 
Or  do  now,  in  the  slightest  degree,  having  sent 
In  my  last  the  desired  information,  which  must 
Have  been  most  gratifying  to  him  ;  and  I  trust 
As  much  pleasure  gave  him  as  I  thought  that  it  might ; 
To  hope  gave  reality,  putting  to  flight 
All  doubt  and  suspicion. 

He  did  not  sit  quite 
At  the  front  of  the  choir  either  morning  or  night, 


104  STOLEN  WATERS. 

But  sitting  just  so  he  co\ild  look  down  at  me, 

With  his  face  half  in  shadow,  and  half  in  light,  he 

Sat  leaned  slightly  forward,  his  cheek  in  his  hand, 

His  head  resting  sometimes  'gainst  the  pillar  so  grand 

Which  was  close  by  his  seat ;  his  eye  seeking  my  own 

With  a  glance  from  which  all  of  the  bitter  had  flown, 

And  only  the  sweetness  remained.     And,  indeed  ! 

His  look  volumes  spoke  ;  in  his  face  I  could  read 

A  depth  and  intenseness  of  passion  I  ne'er, 

In  my  life,  in  another  face  saw.     And  whene'er 

I  ventured  to  look  in  his  fine  speaking  eye, 

So  dark,  deep,  and  lustrous  with  tenderness,  my 

Foolish  heart  with  its  tremulous  beatings  almost 

Seemed  its  bounds  to  be  bursting,  while  through  it  a  host 

Of  fancies  both  tender  and  sweet  swiftly  passed, 

Till  cheek  flushed  and  eye  drooped  'neath  his  glances  at  last, 

To  be  again  timidly  raised,  when  I  deemed 

I  had  courage  to  meet  the  soft  love-light  which  beamed 

So  plainly  in  his ;  and  shone  over  his  face, 

And,  leaving  on  every  feature  its  trace, 

Eendered  each  of  them,  even  the  attitude,  too, 

Mutely  eloquent  of  the  strong  passion  which  threw 

Its  charm  over  me  as  well,  'till  in  my  own 

An  answering  sweetness  and  tenderness  shone ; 

I  trembled  with  rapture  and  every  nerve  thrilled 

With  emotion  I  could  not  controlled  had  I  willed, 

And  which  was  too  new,  and  too  transient,  too  sweet — 

A  shadow  of  happiness  much  too  complete, 

To  cause  me  a  moment's  desire  to  repress, 

Or  endeavor  to  check  what  gave  me,  I  confess, 

Such  intense  and  exquisite  delight.     So  I  quaffed 

With  eagerness,  reckless,  impatient,  great  draughts 


STOLEN  WATERS.  105 

Of  the  tenderness,  passion,  or  love,  I  were  blind 
Not  to  read  in  the  eye  constantly  seeking  mine, 
While  he  motionless  sat  nearly  all  of  the  time 
Except  when  he  sang. 

I  have  flirted  before, 
Quite  desp'rately  also,  as  well  as  with  more 
Than  one  gentleman,  handsome  and  clever,  refined, 
Intelligent  too ;  with  large  hearts,  and  fine  minds, 
And  who  liked  pretty  well  insignificant  me. 
But  yet,  this  I  must  say :  that  I  never  did  see 
In  any  man's  face  so  much  passion  expressed, 
As  was  written  this  morning,  it  must  be  confessed, 
So  plainly  in  his,  my  dear  friend's ;  and  I  thought 
His  had  been  very  eloquent  ere  this,  but  naught 
To  compare  with  its  speaking  to-day. 

Well!  to-night 
He  also  was  there,  as  I  said,  the  same  light 
In  his  eye  that  had  shone  there  this  noon,  and  as  then, 
Soft  eyes  now  looked  love  to  eyes  speaking  again. 
The  evening  was  but  a  complete  repetition* 
Of  to-day.     In  the  same  place  he  sat,  same  position, 
And  sent  to  me  glances  as  tenderly  sweet, 
Which  my  eye  just  as  vainly  as  then  sought  to  meet 
With  aught  like  composure.     No  tkovight  did  he  seem 
To  have  but  for  me ;  and  I,  too,  in  a  dream 
Of  pleasure  delicious  gave  all  mine  to  him, 
Enshrining  each  smile  my  heart's  chambers  within. 
And  paid  to  the  sermon,  I  fear,  little  heed, 
Wicked  girl  that  I  am  !     But  how  could  I,  indeed, 
Beneath  such  a  spell,  such  a  rain  of  soft  looks, 
With  before  me  a  face  like  a  wide-open  book, 
5* 


106  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Written  over  with  passionate  ardor,  each  page — 

How  conld  there  aught  else  my  attention  engage  ? 

I  suppose  I  am  wicked — I  know  that  I  am ! 

Why  am  jTnot  like  others  ?     How  is  it  I  can 

With  the  usual  routine  be  never  content, 

The  same  commonplace,  every-day,  tame  events  ? 

Why  must  I  forever  be  looking  beyond 

For  something  beside,  and  which  when  at  last  found 

Does  not  satisfy,  but  still  urges  me  on 

To  new  aspirations,  and  new  nights  of  hope 

Which  in  turn  disappoint  ? 

By  the  way,  in  my  note — 
The  last  one  I  sent — I  requested  he'd  write 
Me  a  letter  in  church  or  to-day  or  to-night, 
And  give  it  to  me  after  service.     No  one 
But  father  and  I  went  this  eve,  and  alone 
Was  he,  too,  "  my  own  Antony  " — "  she  "  did  not  come 
This  morning  or  evening. 

When  service  was  o'er 
He  hastened  downstairs,  and  just  outside  the  door 
He  passed  me — not  stopping — but  slipped  in  my  hand — 
Which  touched  his  one  instant — a  note,  and  then  ran 
Down  the  street  next  the  church,  and  I,  too,  hastened  home. 
Father  went  right  downstairs,  and  I  thus  left  alone 
Did  not  pause  to  remove  hat  or  cloak,  but  beneath 
The  dim  light  in  the  hall,  I  indeed  scarcely  breathed 
As  with  eager  impatience  I  hastily  read 
Its  contents.     'Twas  short,  and  it  had  at  the  head 
"  Sunday  morn,  in  the  '  corner ' !  "     Began  in  this  way : 
"  My  own  Bitter-Sweet ! 

"  What  a  bright  lovely  day  ! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  107 

You  have  lost  all  your  powers  prophetic,  forsooth ! 
Well,  well !  do  my  eyes  now  behold  you,  in  truth  ? 
And  have  I  been  gazing  indeed  in  the  deeps 
Of  the  eyes  soft,  cerulean  of  my  Bitter-Sweet  ?  " 
Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  reading  my  face, 
And  that  a  few  lines  strongly  marked  he  could  trace; 
But  his  feeble  brain  could  not  endure  it  this  time 
For  a  perfect  analysis.     But  would  some  time 
Like  to  read  it  to  me.     Then  abruptly  he  said 

"  Behind  Mrs. 's  big  hat  why  keep  hiding  your  head  ? 

Did  you  find  anything  between  some  of  the  leaves 
Of  the  psalm-book  to-day  ? 

"  I  suppose  Christmas  Eve 
I  shall  be  here  at  church.     Perhaps  B.  S.  will,  too. 
I  wish  I  could  get  a  good  chance  to  with  you 
Converse !     So  you  did  intend,  plainly,  I  see, 
To  have  some  amusement,  and  disappoint  me ! 
You  rogue !   I  shall  give  you  a  tiny-sized  piece 
Of  my  mind  when  I  see  you. 

"  The  sermon  has  ceased. 
'  Let  us  pray  ! ' 

"  Antony." 

Underneath  he  writes  then, 
"  I  intended  to  give  you  this  note  this  A.M. 
But  did  not  have  a  chance." 

That  is  all,  I  believe ; 
And  this,  too,  must  finish  my  record  this  eve, 
For  my  fire  has  some  time  since  entirely  died  out, 
I'm  quite  chilled,  and  have  caught  a  severe  cold,  no  doubt. 


108  STOLEN  WATERS. 


December  24th,  1863. 

THURSDAY. 

To-night's  Christmas  Eve !  and  to  me  it  has  been 
Quite  a  pleasant  one,  also. 

But  first,  I  wrote  him 
A  letter  on  Monday,  to  ask  if  he  thought 
To  see  me  this  afternoon  he  could  come  up — 
As  I  should  be  housekeeper.     Ma  at  that  time 
Expecting  to  go  up  to  T.,  changed  her  mind, 
However,  and  so  the  next  day  I  was  forced 
To  write  him  that  he  must  not  come  up,  of  course. 
I  asked  and  expected  an  answer  to-day, 
But  did  not  receive  it ;  but  had  yesterday 
A  reply  to  my  Monday's  note,  writing  this  way : 
"  I  think,  without  doubt,  I'll  be  likely  to  go 
Up  town  the  next  Thursday  p.m.,  and  if  so 
Perhaps  find  B.  S." 

So  it  seems  he  would  come 
If  I  had  not  written  him  not  to.     In  one 
Place  he  says : 

"  Are  you  really  bitter,  or  sweet, 
Or  both  ?     Which  predominates  ?     Or  are  they  each 
Divided  quite  equally  ?     If  so,  are  they 
Separately  located,  confined  unto  a 
Particular  place,  or  are  they  diffused  through 
The  system,  and  so  intermingled  the  two 
Fine  properties  cannot  be  separately 
Distinguished.     Just  possibly,  now,  I  might  be 


STOLEN  WATERS.  109 

Enabled  to  answer  the  question — who  knows  ? — 
If  women,  like  apples,  were  eaten.     Suppose 
Me  taking  a  bite  out  your  cheek." 

He  went  on 
With  much  more  in  the  same  style,  and  then  farther  down 
"Writes — 

"  Christmas  is  coming ;  the  Eve  will  find  me 
Stowed  away  in  the  corner.'" 

Abruptly,  then,  he 
To  a  close  brings  his  letter,  by  saying  he's  been 
Several  times  interrupted,  and  now  was  again 
Called  off,  so  would  close  that  he  might  get  it  in 
To  the  office  that  night. 

I  have  been  this  p.m. 
Down  town — sister  Fannie  and  I — got  my  ring, 
And  really  think  it  a  quite  pretty  thing. 
I  meant  my  dear  friend  should  have  been  the  first  one 
To  clasp  in  his  own  my  hand  with  the  ring  on. 
But  was  foolish  enough  to  have  placed  it  on  my 
Right  hand,  and  a  gentleman  passing  us  by 
On  Broadway,  paused  to  speak,  and  ere  I  was  aware 
I  had  been  shaking  hands  with  my  brother. 

As  there 
Was  service  in  church  to-night,  all  of  us  went ; 
My  Antony  too,  was  of  course  there,  and  sent 
Me  many  a  glance,  most  impassioned  and  fond ; 
To  each  one  of  them  all  my  heart  could  but  respond 
In  tremulous  thrills  of  delight.     Oh  !  what  power 
That  man  has  o'er  me  !     Day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, 
It  seems  to  increase,  and  I  wonder  where  lies 
The  magic !     Is  it  in  the  glance  of  his  eyes, 


110  STOLEN  WATERS. 

The  smile  on  his  mouth,  or  the  exquisite  tone 

Of  his  fine  voice,  although  heard  in  singing  alone  ? 

Or  is  there  a  charm  still  more  potent  than  all 

His  soft  smiles  and  fond  looks  ?     The  bewildering  thrall 

Which  the  tempter  thx*ows  over  us,  when  at  our  feet, 

He  lays  the  "  forbidden  fruit "  lusciously  sweet. 

Alas  !  I  am  fearful  that  charm  is  more  deep, 

More  entrancing,  ecstatic,  and  powerful,  too, 

Than  all  others  can  be.     'Tis,  I  fear,  but  too  true, 

We're  all  nearly  related  to  fair  Mother  Eve. 

Young  and  frail,  she  was  only  too  easy  deceived, 

Dra2£fin£  down  all  her  children  in  one  fatal  fall. 

GO  O 

Ah  !     "  The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  us  all." 

Eve,  tempted,  she  yielded,  and  Adam  when  tried 

Proved  that  he'd  no  more  strength  than  his  lovely,  weak 

bride. 
Then  why  should  we  hastily,  rashly  condemn 
Their  children  for  faults  they  inherit  from  them  ? 

Well !  the  voluntary  which  was  given  to-night 
Was,  "  I  know  my  Redeemer  doth  live."    It  was  quite 
A  nice  thing  in  itself,  and  was  rendered,  I  own, 
Exquisitely — sung  by  soprano  alone. 
She  stood  somewhat  back  from  the  front  of  the  choir, 
And  with  self-possessed  grace,  which  I  could  but  admire, 
She  sang  the  whole  piece,  then  a  moment  paused,  when 
She  had  finished,  as  if  about  singing  again, 
Slowly  turning  at  last,  glided  back  to  her  seat, 
While  the  tones  of  the  organ,  so  low  and  so  sweet, 
Grew  fainter  and  fainter,  then  slowly  died  out, 
Until  only  the  echo  remained.     I've  no  doubt 


STOLEN  WATERS.  Ill 

There  were  few  in  the  church  could  help  feeling,  to-night, 
That  "  music  hath  charms  "  ! 

And  the  sermon  was  quite 
As  fine  a  one  also  as  ever  I've  heard 
Mr.  S.  yet  deliver ;  I  think  not  a  word 
Was  lost  to  my  mind,  notwithstanding,  too,  that 
A  little  way  from  me  my  Antony  sat. 
All  conspiring  to  render  the  evening  to  me 
Quite  as  pleasant  as  I  could  desire  it  to  be. 
By  the  way,  I  did  feel  amused,  somewhat,  this  eve, 
At  what  little  Harry  remarked  (I  believe 
I  mentioned,  some  time  since,  my  sister  had  come 
On  from  Boston — of  course  bringing  also  her  son), 
And  to-night  Harry  said,  after  we  had  come  home, 
"  That  man  that  was  up  in  the  choir  looked  at  me 
Nearly  all  of  the  time  !  " 

Little  innocent !  he 
Took  all  to  himself  the  sweet  looks  which  were  meant 
For  another — one  who  in  return  for  them  sent 
Looks  as  warmly  impassioned.     He  never  once  thought 
There  was  greater  attraction  beside  him  than  aught 
He  could  offer,  to  cause  that  deep,  soft  sparkling  eye 
So  often  to  turn  toward  us. 

By  the  by, 
I  wrote  a  short  note  to  my  friend,  just  before 
I  went  out,  to  give  him  after  service  was  o'er ; 
And  succeeded  in  showing  it  to  him,  although 
None  but  him  I  think  saw  it.     But  I  needed  no 
Stronger  proof  that  he  did,  than  the  soft,  but  faint  glow 
Which  suffused  his  cheek  instantly,  also  the  quick 
Intelligence  beaming  from  eyes  that  a  trick 


112  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Have,  I  fancy,  of  playing  the  traitor  to  what 
Within  his  mind  passes  sometimes.     He  is  not 
Aware,  I  presume,  what  a  traitorous  face 
He  carries  with  him,  or  how  plain  I  can  trace 
In  its  changes,  at  times,  his  emotions  and  thoughts. 

I  was  nearly  or  quite  half-way  home,  ere  he  caught 
Me  and  dext'rously  slipped  in  my  hand,  as  he  passed, 
A  note — and  which  proved  the  reply  to  my  last, 
"Which  I  looked  for  to-day — in  return  for  the  one 
He  found  in  my  hand.     It  was  quietly  done, 
And  none  of  those  with  me  I'm  sure  saw  the  act. 
He  turned  down  the  street  we'd  just  passed,  which  in  fact 
Was  his  own. 

And  his  letter  was  pleasant  and  kind. 
It  commenced  "  My  own  Bitter- Sweet!  " — this  underlined- 
"  Christmas  Eve.     In  the  '  corner,'  "  'twas  dated,  and  on 
A  small  sheet  of  music  was  written.     He  found 
That  he  was  mistaken  in  thinking,  he  said, 
That  he  had  there  some  paper,  and  so  must  instead 
Use  this  "  National  Hymn."     He  did  not  till  this  morn 
Have  my  letter,  as  he  out  of  town  had  been  gone, 
So  in  season  for  me  to  receive  it  to-day 
He  could  not  reply.     I've  forgotten  to  say 
His  letter  with  kind  Christmas  wishes  began. 
He  writes — 

"  I  imagine  I  noticed  your  hand 
This  eve  to  your  face ;  and  I  thought  it  indeed 
Quite  pretty,  although  too  far  off  to  perceive 
It  very  distinctly.     Do  you  recollect 
What  Romeo  says  to  the  fair  Juliet, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  113 

When  he  at  the  casement  has  just  perceived  her, 

In  the  scene  in  the  garden  ?     '  Oh,  would  that  I  were 

A  glove  on  that  hand,  that  I  might  touch  that  cheek  !' " 

Then  of  various  trifles  he  goes  on  to  speak, 

And  writes  just  at  closing, 

"  The  young  ladies  wish 
To  know  what  I'm  writing.     I  tell  them  it  is 
A  love  letter,  and  they  are  anxious  to  see. 
In  your  rear,  rolling  up  her  eyes  here,  is  Miss  T., 
As  if  she  thought  she  could  read  mischief  in  nle, 
And  indeed  I — 

u  The  sermon  is  now  at  an  end. 
"  Your 

"  Antony." 

This  little  note  from  "  my  friend" 
And  written  in  pencil  on  "  National  Hymn," 
Creased  in  folding,  and  soiled  slightly,  too,  having  been 
Held  some  moments  within  his  dear  hand  moist  and  warm, 
Brings  before  we  with  such  force  the  face  and  the  form 
Of  my  dear,  dearest  friend,  that  it  now  almost  seems 
As  if  he  were  here  in  reality.     Dreams 
From  which  I  awaken  to  find  I'm  alone, 
That  the  charm  of  his  dear — fancied — presence  has  flown, 
To  find  there  is  now  nothing  left  in  my  grasp 
But  a  piece  of  the  most  senseless  paper ;  yet  clasped 
With  fond  warmth  in  the  hand  which  in  passing  to-night 
For  a  moment  touched  his. 

Am  I  dreaming  tho',  quite  ? 
If  I  am  not  I  should  be,  and  so  I  must  say, 
Christmas  Eve,  fare-thee-well,  and  good-night  to  to-day. 


114  STOLEN  WATERS. 


December  27th,  1863. 


SUNDAY. 


Stayed  home  all  day  Christmas,  and  most  of  the  day 
I  sat  in  the  parlor  with  book  or  crochet, 
And  in  every  stitch  of  the  tidy  I  wrought, 
I  fastened  of  him  a  most  kind,  friendly  thought. 
With  bright  anticipations  of  when  we  should  meet, 
If  that  time  ever  comes — every  hour  was  replete, 
And  the  day  swiftly  speeded.     And  yet  I  was  blue 
As  any  one  could  be,  and  all  the  eve  too, 
Although  I  went  out.     Passed  a  quite  pleasant  eve ; 
But  came  home  out  of  humor,  somewhat,  I  believe, 
And  my  Christmas  closed  with  a  hot  storm  of  tears. 

,  'Twas  pleasant  to-day,  notwithstanding  my  fears 
To  the  contrary  ;  but  I  can't  say  it  has  been 
An  exceedingly  bright  one  to  me.     I  saw  him 
At  service  this  morning,  of  course,  and  to-night ; 
But  he — naughty  boy — all  the  forenoon,  sat  quite 
Far  back  in  the  corner.     I  thought,  though,  that  he 
Was  writing,  but  guess  he  was  not.     This  eve  "  she  " 
Was  there  ; .  and  my  father  and  I  went  alone. 
I  carried  a  note,  which  to  him  having  shown, 
He  hastened  downstairs  soon  as  service  was  o'er — 
Our  seat  is  quite  near  to  the  vestibule  door — 
And  so  I  was  out  in  the  entry,  before 
Scarcely  any  one  else  was.     And  he  was  there,  too, 
As  soon  as  myself,  and  he  walked  part  way  through 


STOLEN  WATERS.  115 

To  the  door,  by  my  side,  as  he  took  from  my  hand 
The  note  which  was  in  it ;  but  he — ugly  man ! — 
Gave  me  none  in  return.     I  was  vexed  enough,  too  ! 
And  I  did  pinch  his  hand  just  a  little,  'tis  true, 
When  I  found  it  was  empty.     I  wished  I  had  not 
Have  given  him  mine,  then ;  but  neyer  once  thought 
He  would  fail  to  give  me  one  as  well  the  same  time, 
And  I  think  that  he  might ! 

I  wrote  him  in  mine, 
To  come  out  and  see  me  next  Tuesday  p.m. — 
My  mother  is  going  to  Tarrytown  then, 
If  she  don't  change  her  mind. 

I  believe  I  am  quite 
Too  cross,  or  too  blue,  or  despondent,  to  write 
Any  more,  so  my  book  I  will  close  for  to-night. 


December  ZOth,  1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Monday  was  to  me  one  of  the  most  wretched  days 
That  I  ever  have  passed,  I  think.     In  the  first  place, 
I  felt  as  unhappy  as  could  be,  and  then 
To  Brooklyn  was  forced  to  go  in  the  A.M. 
And  ere  I  arrived  there  it  started  to  snow, 
And  continued  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  also 
A  part  of  the  next.     I  reached  home  about  noon, 
And  Fannie  was  going  to  Tarrytown  soon, 
And  wished  me  to  accompany  her.     I,  'tis  true, 
Did  not  like  to  at  all ;  but  then,  what  could  I  do  ? 


116  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  had  no  excuse,  she  insisted,  and  I, 

As  a  matter  of  course,  could  do  naught  but  comply. 

And  so  one  more  brief  note  to  my  "  own  Antony," 

I  wrote  ere  I  started,  and  took  out  with  me, 

To  mail  on  the  way.     And  I  told  him  that  he 

Must  not  come  out  on  Tuesday,  as  I  had  to  go 

Out  of  town  for  a  few  days,  against  my  will,  though, 

But  that  I  should  be,  without  much  doubt,  at  home 

Next  Thursday  p.m.,  and  if  so,  be  alone, 

And  then  should  be  happy  to  see  him.     I  know 

Scarcely  what,  when  he  reads  it,  he'll  think.      Somehow, 

though, 
I  felt  that  he  cared  not  to  come ;  yet  each  time 
That  we  have  arranged  it,  the  fault  has  been  mine 
That  'twas  not  carried  out — for  he  every  time  wrote 
He  should  come  at  the  time  I  had  named  in  my  note. 
Yet  the  letter  I  sent  him  that  day  was  somewhat 
Independent,  at  least — he  could  come,  or  need  not — 
I  made  him  perceive,  just  which  pleased  him  to  do. 
And  then  wrote : 

"  If  you  come,  though,  I  shall  not  tempt  you, 
I  think,  from  allegiance  unto  your  wife. 
I  imagine,  although,  'twould  not  be,  in  your  life, 
The  first  time  it  had  swayed." 

"We  called  in  at  a  store 
On  our  way  to  the  depot,  and  there  right  before 
Me  a  gentleman  stood  I  was  introduced  to 
On  last  Christmas  evening ;  who  then,  it  is  true, 
Paid  me  some  attention ;  but  I've  never  thought 
Of  him  since,  and  I  certainly  that  day  did  not 
Feel  at  all  like  conversing  with  strangers,  that  I 
Cared  nothing  about.     So  I'd  not  meet  his  eye, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  117 

Though  he  made,  Fannie  said,  every  effort  he  could 
To  attract  my  attention ;  but  did  him  no  good. 
I  knew  he  was  there,  so  would  give  him  no  glance 
Of  recognition,  warranting  any  advance 
On  his  part. 

We  had  quite  a  time  getting  out 
To  T.,  for  the  snow  gained  so  fast  'twas  about 
All  the  cars  could  then  do  to  get  through,  and  'twas  late 
When  at  last  we  arrived  at  my  brother  Frank's  gate. 
The  next  day  my  depression  of  spirits  was  gone, 
So  I  had  a  nice  time,  notwithstanding  my  strong 
Aversion  to  going. 

Came  home  this  p.m.  ; 
Found  letters  awaiting  me,  one  from  my  friend — 
'Twas  short,  but  most  kind,  and  he  said  he  had  been 
Nearly  "  driven  to  death  "  for  the  whole  day,  and  then 
Was  completely  fagged  out;  but  had  just  snatched  a  few 
Brief  moments  to  tell  me,  and  hurriedly,  too, 
That  he  should  go  up  town  the  next  afternoon 
If  pleasant,  about  two  o'clock,  or  as  soon 
Thereafter  as  might  be,  according  to  my 
Instructions.     I  sent,  since  I  came  home  to-night, 
Him  a  letter,  or  rather  a  word — it  was  not 
Hardly  worthy  the  name  of  a  letter,  as  what 
I  wrote  in  it  merely  was  "  Gome  !  "  and  the  date — 
Though  I  signed  it,  of  course.     It  was  getting  quite  late 
When  I  went  out  to  mail  it.-     A  man  spoke  to  me, 
And  frightened  me  so  that  I  think  I  shall  be 
More  careful  in  future  about  going  out 
In  the  evening  alone  ;  I  said  nothing  about 
It,  because  no  one  knew  that  I  went. 


118  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Mother  goes 
Up  to  T.  in  the  morning,  if  pleasant,  and  so 
As  my  sister  remained  there,  and  Gertrude  will  be 
To-morrow  at  school,  of  course,  I  cannot  see 
As  there  will  be  anything  now  to  prevent 
Our  meeting  at  last. 

Can  it  be  my  dear  friend 
I  shall  see  in  one  more  day  ?    For  once  have  him,  too, 
To  my  own  self  entirely  ?     I  cannot,  can  you, 
My  Journal,  dear  ?  yet  realize  it  is  true  ! 
I  have  anticipated  with  so  much  of  deep 
And  passionate  longing  his  coming — in  sleep 
Have  fancied  him  near  me  so  often,  to  wake 
And  find  it  a  dream,  an  illusive  mistake, 
That  now  that  the  time  is  so  nearly  at  hand, 
When  my  dreams  shall  become  all  reality,  and 
My  hopes  in  fruition  be  merged,  I  cannot 
Hardly  give  credence  unto  the  sweet,  happy  thought, 
Lest  to-morrow  I  waken  to  find  it  but  a 
Delusion,  which  morning  light  scatters  away. 


December  ?>Yst,  1863. 

THURSDAY. 

How  can  I  write  down  the  events  of  this  day  ? 
Where  shall  I  begin,  and  oh,  what  shall  I  say  ? 
How  can  I  describe  what  it's  been  unto  me — 
This  last  day  of  the  year — one  ever  to  be 
Set  apart  ?     And  "  one  brimful  of  sensations  new, 
And  deep,  sweet,  and  thrilling ;   of  sensations,  too, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  119 

Known  but  once  in  a  lifetime."     I  think,  too,  that  he 
Will  never  forget  it ;  and  that  it  must  be 
To  him,  even,  man  of  the  world  as  he  is, 
A  day  of  some  import ;  and  that  I  in  his 
Thoughts  to-night  can  but  have  a  conspicuous  place. 
As  for  me,  I  can  now  close  my  eyes,  and  his  face 
Seems  right  here  before  me. 

He  came  this  p.m. 
About  two  o'clock — not  much  later — and  when 
He  passed  by  the  window  I  saw  him,  and  so 
To  open  the  door  I  made  all  haste,  although 
He  yet^had  not  rung,  and  he  stood  before  me, 
Just  as  handsome  and  noble  as  ever ;  and  we 
Shook  hands  in  a  matter-of-fact,  friendly  Avay. 
No  confusion  on  either  side  ;  and  I  must  say, 
Notwithstanding  that  we  to-day  met  under  such 
Circumstances  peculiar,  there  was  not  a  touch 
Of  embarrassment  shown  in  his  manner,  and  I 
None  experienced,  certainly  !  even  if  my 
Cheek  was  flushed  Avith  excitement,  my  heart  beating  fast, 
With  joy  at  his  presence,  long  hoped  for,  at  last 
In  its  fulness  possessed. 

In  the  parlor  we  passed — 
And  sat  down  by  the  grate,  in  an  easy-chair,  I, 
He  seating  himself  in  another  near  by, 
Directly  in  front  of,  and  facing,  too,  mine. 
Of  various  matters  we  talked  for  some  time, 
And  I  found  my  dear  friend  to  be  quite  as  refined, 
As  intelligent,  too,  avcII  informed,  and  as  kind, 
As  pleasing  in  manner,  in  voice,  and  in  speech — 
As  I  had  imagined  him.     Indeed !  in  each 


120  STOLEN  WATERS. 

He  went  far  ahead  of  my  fancy.     I  find 

He  is  thoroughly  gentle,  too,  which,  to  my  mind, 

Is  the  most  potent  charm  which  a  man  can  possess. 

I  always  have  thought  he  would  be,  I  confess, 

Sarcastic  somewhat,  but  I  never  saw  less 

Of  that  than  in  him  who  was  with  me  to-day. 

And  then  he  has,  too,  I  can't  less  do  than  say, 

The  most  fascinating,  caressing,  nice  way, 

Of  any  man  which  I  have  known  heretofore, 

And  I'm  certain  that  no  one  has  e'er  made  me  more 

Intensely,  unspeakably  happy  than  he 

Did  to-day,  when  he  sat  here  conversing  with  me. 

I  would  I  were  able  to  write  it  all  here, 

Each  motion  and  act,  every  word  that  his  dear 

Lips  uttered ;  but  that  I  can't  do,  it  is  clear. 

It  is  all  indistinct  as  a  last  evening's  dream, 

And  I  into  form  could  not  draw  it,  I  ween. 

I  write  a  few  words,  and,  ere  I  am  aware, 

I  forget  what  I'm  doing,  almost  forget  where 

I  am,  for  the  time,  and  my  pen  is  laid  down, 

And  I,  in  a  reverie  sweet  and  profound, 

Live  over  again  every  moment  of  the 

Two  brief  fleeting  hours,  so  delicious  to  me, 

So  full  of  exquisite,  entrancing  delight, 

A  spell  which  yet  rests  on  me. 

I  cannot  write  ! 
I  do  not  know  how ;  I  cannot  language  find 
To  express  what  I  wish — to  convey  from  my  mind, 
To  this  paper  insensate,  the  memory  of  what 
Was  so  pleasant  in  passing.     I'm  sure  I  cannot 
Forget  it,  as  long  as  I  live,  and  so  why 
Should  I  care  about  having  it  written  ?     Yet  I 


STOLEN  WATERS.  121 

Suppose  rather  pleasant  'twould  be,  by  and  by, 

These  leaves  of  my  life  to  turn  backward,  and  read 

Of  a  fancy — it  is  nothing  deeper,  indeed, 

I  am  certain — and  which  may  have  long  since  burnt  out, 

And  a  memory,  that  half-forgotten,  no  doubt, 

Be  all  that  is  left  of  the  ashes.     I'll  try 

And  write  what  I  can,  though  it  should,  by  the  by, 

Be  somewhat  incoherent. 

As  saying  before, 
Of  various  things  we  conversed,  and  went  o'er 
Some  points,  too,  of  our  correspondence.     Pretty  much 
The  first  thing  he  said  was, 

"  How  dare  you  make  such 
Grave  charges  against  me  ?  " 

And  this  with  a  smile 
Arch  and  humorous  ;  I,  though,  covdd  not  for  awhile 
Understand  his  allusion,  and  so  I  told  him, 
And  he  only  repeated  the  same  thing ;  but  in 
A  moment  or  two  it  had  flashed  on  my  mind 
To  what  he  referred — what  I  wrote  the  last  time — 
That  "  I  should  not  tempt  him,  etc.,"  and  so 
I  answered, 

"  I  recollect  now,  but  you  know 
I  dare  to  do  anything,  but  to  meet  you  1 " 
He  laughed  then  a  little,  replied, 

"  So  you  do 
Think,  then,  it  would  not  be  the  Jirst  time,  do  you  ?  " 

He  hardly  looks  like  the  same  man  in  the  choir 
That  he  does  out  of  it ;  not  but  what  I  admire 
Him  as  much,  or  but  what  he  looks  quite  as  well,  too, 
Near  by  as  he  does  farther  off.     To  the  view 
6 


122  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Distance  lends  not  enchantment,  at  least,  in  this  case ; 

He  is  very  fine-looking,  in  form  and  in  face. 

I  do  not  see  how  I  could  ever  have  thought 

That  Colonel  Allair  is  more  handsome  !     He's  not, 

By  any  means ;  though  he  in  fact  is  somewhat 

Of  a  different  style,  from  "  my  own  Antony  ;" 

Is  darker  complexioned,  I  think ;  at  least,  he 

Is  less  fair  in  face,  and  his  beard  darker,  too ; 

Is  taller,  not  quite  so  broad  shouldered.     I  do 

Not  think  that  he  either  possesses  such  grace 

Or  polish  of  manner,  allowing  his  face 

To  be  nearly  as  handsome. 

Remarking  to  him 
That  he  did  not  look  like  the  same  person  when  in 
The  choir  that  he  did  out  of  it,  he  replied, 
Laughingly,  that  perhaps  he  was  not ;  how  did  I 
Know,  indeed,  but  he  was  some  one  else  ? 

He  to-day 
To  call  on  a  lady  a  few  blocks  away 
Was  going — her  name  Mrs.  Douglass,  I  think, 
And  a  stranger  to  him — to  engage  her  to  sing 
Next  Sabbath  at  church.     I  inquired  whose  place  she 
Was  to  take,  the  soprano's,  or  alto's.      And  he 
First  replied  laughingly,  "  Oh,  the  tenor's,"  and  then, 
Said  that  she  was  to  sing  in  the  place  of  Miss  M., 
The  present  soprano. 

Referred,  by  the  by, 
To  the  poem  he  sent  me,  "  You  ITissed  3fef"  and  I 
Asked  if  he  knew  the  author.     He  said  he  did  not. 
It  purported  to  come  from  a  lady,  but  thought 
A  woman  naught  half  so  exquisite  could  write, 
And  added  that  in  the  piece  there  was  some  quite 


STOLEN  WATERS.  123 

Strong  language  employed ;  and  then  quoted,  in  his 

Tones  so  matchless,  the  few  lines  commencing  with  this, 

"  And  were  1  this  instant  an  angel,  possessed 

Of  the  glory  and  peace  that  is  given  the  blest, 

I  would  throw  my  white  robes  unrepiningly  down, 

And  tear  from  my  forehead  its  glittering  crown, 

To  nestle  once  more  in  that  haven  of  rest " — 

At  the  next  line  he  paused,  and  with  archness  expressed 

In  his  face,  and  I  fancied  some  bashfulness,  said, 

With  a  little  short  laugh,  tossing  backward  his  head, 

"  I've  forgotten  the  rest !  " 

He  informed  me  that  he 
And  my  Sabbath-school  teacher  schoolmates  used  to  be. 
I  exclaimed  in  surprise,  "  Why  he's  older  than  you  ?  " 
He  smiled,  said,  "  I  guess  not,  think  he's  fifty-two, 
And  I  fifty-seven  !  " 

"  You  are  not  so  old  !  " 
I  replied,  and  I  knew  by  his  face  he'd  not  told 
Me  the  truth  when  he  answered  me — "  "Why !  that  is  not 
Very  old,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  so  very,  I  thought, 
Though  that  you  was  much  younger  !  "  replied  I,  and  he 
Said,  "  No  !  I  am  just  seventeen  !  " 

Teasing  me, 
I  of  course  knew  he  then  was,  or  trying  to  do ; 
So  I  said  "  No!  but  tell  me,  just  how  old  are  you!  " 
"  Thirty-seven,"  he  then  said  he  was,  and  I  knew 
That  this  time,  at  least,  he  was  telling  me  true. 
Just  to  think  of  it !     He  was  last  year  twice  as  old 
As  I !     And  how  long  he'd  been  married,  he  told 
Me,  as  well.     Fifteen  years,  I  believe,  and  so  I 
Was  scarcely  four  years  old.     He  would,  by  the  by, 


124  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Have  had  a  long  time  to  have  waited  for  me. 
He  has  two  little  boys,  and  the  oldest  thirteen, 
The  other  one  seven.     I  never  have  seen 
The  youngest. 

I  spoke  of  a  cousin  of  mine 
Seeing  him  at  a  ball,  one  eve,  some  little  time 
Ago  ;  but  he  said  he'd  not  been  to  but  one 
This  season ;  and  that  was  masonic.     He'd  on 
A  masonic  ring,  also.     I  asked  him  if  he 
Was  a  mason,  and  could  he  not  give  unto  me 
The  "  grip,"  and  he  answered,  "  Oh,  yes !  "  as  he  took 
My  hand  in  his  own,  but  of  course  merely  shook 
It,  and  naturally,  I  suppose,  held  it  fast, 
And  pressing  my  fingers,  retained  in  his  clasp 
The  hand  he  had  taken,  although  from  his  grasp 
To  release  it  I  did  once  or  twice  vainly  try. 
But  he  then  took  the  other,  instead,  by  the  by, 
Both  holding  with  firmness,  yet  gently,  and  I 
Did  not  care  very  much. 

I  expected  he  would 
Have  made  such  advances.     I  think  that  I  should 
Be  affected  and  foolish  if  I  should  pretend 
That  I  did  not ;  or  either  that  he  did  offend 
By  making  such  overtures.     I  of  course  knew 
When  I  sent  my  first  letter,  and  also  all  through, 
More  especially,  though,  since  becoming  aware 
That  I  knew  he  was  married,  and-so-forth,  that  there 
Could  not  be  much  doubt  but  that  he'd  misjudge  me 
And  not  only  weak,  but  unprincipled,  he 
Might  possibly  think  me.     'Twould  certainly  be 
Very  natural,  too  ;  and  I  could  not  blame  him 
If  he  did,  yet  I  can  but  acknowledge  he's  been 


STOLEN  WATEMS.  125 

Exceedingly  generous,  and,  I  have  had 

Occasion  but  once  any  fault  to  find — that 

Was  his  sending  the  poem,  to  which  some  way  back 

I  think  I  referred.     Therefore,  I  was,  in  fact, 

Prepared  for  injustice,  yet  still  hoped  he  might 

In  the  end  change  his  mind,  and  I  think  that,  to-night, 

Of  me  his  opinion  is  different  quite 

From  what  'twas  this  morn.     I  repelled  all  I  could, 

Without  being  rude,  the  caresses  he  would 

Have  lavished  on  me ;  and  I've  no  fault  to  find, 

And  he,  I  am  certain,  went  home  with  his  mind 

In  regard  to  my  frailty  quite  disabused.     And, 

While  making  him  fully,  I  think,  understand 

I  was  not  what  he  thought  me,  I  did  not  repel 

What  I  knew  was  quite  harmless,  and  also  was — well, 

There  has  been  in  my  heart  for  so  long  an  intense, 

Half-unconscious  desire  for  my  friend's  dear  presence — 

A  longing  just  once  to  be  clasped  in  his  arms, 

That  now  that  my  wishes  could  be  without  harm 

Gratified,  why  should  I,  what  he  gave  on  his  part 

With  so  much  of  pleasure,  refuse,  while  my  heart 

A  rapid  response  beat  to  each  fond  caress 

That  he  offered.     And  so  I  did  not,  I  confess, 

Repulse  him,  when  he  his  head  laid  on  my  breast, 

But  suffered  it  there  a  few  moments  to  rest, 

While  I  to  his  forehead  my  cheek  softly  pressed, 

As  happy  as  he.     Nor  again,  when  he  drew 

Me  within  his  embrace  for  a  moment  or  two, 

Just  before  he  was  leaving,  and  pressed  on  my  lips 

His  first  kiss,  while  to  my  very  finger-tips 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  from  my  heart. 


126  STOLEN  WATERS. 

He,  at  last, 
Having  glanced  at    his  watch,  found  that  two  hours   had 

passed, 
And  'twas  then  four  o'clock ;  therefore,  was  about  time 
For  Gertrude  to  come  home  from  school ;  and  to  find 
Him  with  me  she  must  not;  so  I  told  him  that  he 
Must  go,  which  he  already  knew.     So  of  me 
Taking  leave,  very  sweetly  and  kindly,  he  went, 
And  I  was  alone. 

One  more  hour  was  far  spent 
Before  Gertie  came  home,  so  he  need  not  have  gone 
So  soon,  had  I  known  it  would  been  quite  so  long 
Ere  she  would  have  come.     Mother  did  not  get  home 
Until  about  nine,  and  so  we  were  alone — 
I  and  Gertie — as  father  went  down  town  this  eve, 
To  hear — Wendell  Phillips'  address,  I  believe. 
Gertrude  soon  went  to  sleep  on  the  sofa,  and  I 
Before  the  fire  sat,  in  a  rocker,  with  my 
Elbows  resting  on  each  of  the  arms  of  my  chair, 
Both  hands   clasped  o'er    my  eyes,   and   my  thoughts — oh, 

well,  where 
Should  they  be  but  with  him  ?    And  I  wonder,  too,  whether 
"  He  thought  of  to-day,  of  when  we  were  together. 
How  ?    Where  ?    Oh,  what  matter !    Somewhere  in  a  dream, 
Drifting,  slowly  drifting  down  a  wizard  stream — 
Where  ?   Together  !    Then  what  matters  it  whither  ?  " 

But  midnight  is  rapidly  hastening  thither, 
And  I'll  say  good-by  to  to-day  which  has  been 
One  of  unalloyed  pleasure ;  enshrining  within 
My  heart's  "  white-washed  chamber,"  its  deepest  recess, 
The  memory  dear  of  to-day,  and  confess 
"  Stolen  waters  are  sweet!  " 


STOLEN  WATERS.  127 

And  I  also  must  blend 
With  adieus  to  the  day  a  good-night  to  my  friend, 
To  the  future  give  hopes,  to  the  past  give  a  tear 
Of  regret,  and  farewells  to  the  speeding  "  Old  Year." 


tTanua/ry  8  th,  1864. 

FRIDAY. 

"  The  great  laws  of  life  readjust  their  infraction, 
And  to  every  emotion  appoint  a  reaction." 
That  sentiment  I  indorse  with  all  my  heart, 
And  have  realized  fully,  I  think,  for  my  part, 
The  truth  of  the  sentence.     That  pleasure  must  be 
By  misery  followed  inevitably. 
No  letter  last  Saturday  did  I  receive, 
As  I  hoped  that  I  might ;  and  the  Sabbath,  indeed, 
Was  a  miserable  day  all  around.     In  the  morn 
I  of  course  went  to  service.     My  brother  was  down 
And  went  to  church  with  us.     My  cousin  came,  too, 
From  Brooklyn,  and  as  to  myself,  I  was  blue, 
I  thought,  as  I  could  be,  before  I  went  out ; 
But  my  spirits,  when  I  had  returned,  were  about 
Ten  degrees  lower  still. 

Well !  my  friend  was  there  too, 
And  he  much  as  usual  appeared,  it  is  true ; 
Yet  I  own  I  was  rather  dissatisfied,  felt 
Cross  at  him  just  a  little,  and  more  at  myself. 
I  also  was  vexed  that  I  had  not  received 
Any  letter  from  him  Saturday,  and  believed 


128  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  he  might  to  me  written,  if  he  had  cared  to, 

As  he  promised,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  to  do, 

And  was  more  disappointed  than  caring  to  own. 

Then  my  brother  and  wife,  after  we  returned  home, 

Had  some   words,  which  were  called   out  by  something  I 

said, 
Though  quite  innocently ;  and  then,  too,  my  head 
Ached  almost  as  much  as  my  heart,  and  I  thought, 
On  the  whole,  'twas  a  day  as  thoroughly  fraught 
With  annoyances,  trifling,  perhaps,  but  yet  none 
The  less  irritating  and  vexing,  as  one 
Very  frequently  passes. 

There  was,  by  the  by, 
In  the  chapel  a  prayer-meeting  merely,  that  night, 
And  no  service  in  church,  and  so  I  was  quite 
Content  to  stay  home. 

Well,  I  heard  the  bell  ring 
To-day,  but  supposed  it  was  not  anything 
For  me ;  consequently,  was  much  pleased  to  find 
I'd  not  only  a  letter  from  Antony  mine, 
But  one  also  from  Colonel  Allair.     And  I  then 
Felt  better ;  for  both  were  quite  pleasing,  and  when 
I  had  opened  the  Colonel's  I  found  there  enclosed 
A  photograph  of  him — a  fine  one  ! 

Suppose 
My  Antony  wished  to  make  up  for  delay 
In  writing  to  me,  for  his  letter  to-day 
Was  much  longer  than  usual,  nor  can  I  but  say, 
Was  equally  kindly  and  warmly  expressed. 
Commenced  "  My  own  Bitter-Sweet,"  and,  for  the  rest, 
I  would  much  like  to  copy  it  here  if  I  could, 
But  have  neither  the  time  nor  the  space. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  129 

Thought  he  should 
In  the  choir  his  position  resign  soon,  although 
He  did  "  rather  like  the  old  '  corner,'  "  and  so 
Guess  he'll  not.     And  his  letter  I  answered  to-night, 
And  mailed  it.     I  went  past  his  house.     A  bright  light 
Was  in  parlor  and  hall ;  but  the  shades  were  drawn  down. 
I  saw  naught  of  him — presume  he  was  down  town. 
Sister  Fannie  to  Boston  returned  yesterday. 
I'm  so  tired,  and  think  I  have  no  more  to  say. 


January  10^/t,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Do  not  feel  much  like  writing,  have  not  much  to  write ! 
It's  become  second  nature  to  write  Sabbath  night. 
So,  as  is  my  wont,  I  have  taken  my  pen, 
And  opened  my  book  for  that  purpose.     But  then, 
As  before  I  have  said,  I  have  not  much  to  say. 
The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I  am  to-day 
In  much  too  low  spirits  for  anything.     Too, 
There's  nothing  of  import  occurred,  since  with  you 
I  chatted,  my  Journal,  a  few  nights  ago. 
Lorette  was  here  yesterday  afternoon,  so 
We  went  with  some  friends  to  the  theatre.     Then 
I'd  an  invitation  to  B.  this  p.m. 
To  dine,  but  'twas  so  "  bitter  cold  "  did  not  go. 
Went  to  church  morn  and  evening  as  usual,  and  so 
Of  course  saw  my  Antony.     I  did  not,  though, 
Pay  but  little  attention  to  him,  nor  did  he 
To  me  either  this  morning ;  he  seemed,  though,  to  be 
6* 


130  STOLEN   WATERS. 

Very  pleasant  and  smiling  this  evening,  but  I 
Looked  coldly  away,  and  would  not  meet  his  eye. 
I  suppose  that  he  thinks  I  am  ugly — I,  too, 
Think  he  is  a  little,  my  Journal ;  don't  you  ? 


January  lith,  1864. 

THURSDAY. 

One  more  pleasant  day  in  my  changeable  life ! 
Again  I  can  write  of  some  hours  that  were  rife 
With  pleasure,  instead  of  with  pain.     A  short  note 
I  sent  to  my  Antony  Tuesday  last.     Wrote 
That  mother  was  going  to  Brooklyn  to-day, 
And  if  he  could  come  out  this  p.m.,  and  stay 
An  hour  or  two  with  me,  that  I  should  be  glad 
To  see  him,  of  course.     I  had  hoped  to  have  had 
A  letter  in  answer  this  morning,  to  know 
Was  he  coming  or  not.     None  arrived,  though,  and  so 
I  hardly  knew  whether  to  expect  him  or  not. 
About  noon,  though,  the  bell  loudly  rang,  and  I  thought 
It  sounded  indeed  like  the  carrier's  ring ; 
But  it  was  so  late,  thought  it  could  not  be  him. 
However,  it  was,  and  he  brought  me  the  note 
I  had  been  expecting ;  and  yet,  though  he  wrote 
A  long  letter,  for  him,  not  a  word  did  he  say 
As  to  whether  he  should,  or  not,  come  out  to-day. 
He  asked  near  the  end  how  I  liked  Sunday  morn 
The  sermon  ;  and  said  he  dared  hardly  look  down, 
As  it  seemed  just  as  though  some  one's  eyes  were  on  him 
All  the  time. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  131 

"Well,  of  course  I  was  dressed  and  within 
The  parlor  before  two  o'clock ;  but  I  had 
Nearly  given  him  up  ere  he  came  ;   but  was  glad, 
Very  glad,  to  see  his  well-known  form,  pass  at  length, 
The  window ;  and  so  to  the  hall-door  I  went, 
And  admitted  my  friend. 

Mrs.  A.,  who  has  been 
Staying  here  for  some  time,  had  gone  out  this  p.m., 
Saying  that  she  expected  a  call  from  a  friend, 
And  asked  me  if  I  would  not  see  him,  and  tell 
Him  why  she  was  absent,  and  .send  him  there.     Well ! 
I  promised  to  do  so,  and  thought  it  was  him, 
When  soon  after  my  friend  came  I  heard  the  bell  ring. 
So  I  went  to  the  door  ;  but  a  lady  was  there 
Whom  I  did  not  know ;  proved  to  be  a  Miss  Ware, 
A  teacher  of  music,  and  came  here  to  see 
If  mother  would  not  allow  Gertrude  to  be 
A  pupil  of  hers.     So  I  told  her  that  I 
Would  speak  to  mamma  about  it,  and  would  try 
And  at  once  let  her  know  the  result.     She  had  then 
Full  particulars  given  to  me ;  therefore,  when 
She  asked  me  if  she  might  come  in,  I  was  so 
Much  surprised  that  just  what  to  reply  did  not  know. 
Nor  did  I  think  ahead  far  enough  then  to  say 
That  I  was  engaged,  and  if  some  other  day 
She'd  call,  she  would  doubtless  mamma  find  at  home. 
Hesitating  one  instant,  the  next  I  had  shown 
Her  in  the  front-parlor.     My  Antony  then 
Had  my  albums,  and  sat  calmly  looking  at  them ; 
He  was  in  the  back  room ;  both  the  doors,  though,  between 
"Were  wide  open,  and  so  she  of  course  must  have  seen 


132  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Him  sitting  there ;  but  I  did  not  at  the  time 

Think  anything  of  it,  except,  Journal  mine, 

That  I  wished  she  would  go.     And  she  did  not  say  one 

Single  thing  except  what  she  had  previously  done. 

Remained  a  few  moments,  and  then  went  away. 

She  gave  me  her  card,  and  I  found,  by  the  way, 

That  she  on  the  same  street  resided  that  he 

Does.     He  looked  at  her  card,  and  he  said  she  must  be 

But  a  few  doors  from  him,  and  he  guessed  he  would  go 

And  take  lessons  in  singing  ;  but  he  did  not  know 

Her  at  all,  in  reply  to  my  question,  said. 

Well! 
We  were  having  a  cosey  chat  all  to  ourselves, 
When  some  little  time  after  the  bell  rang  again. 
You  must  know  that  I  did  not  go  this  time,  but  when 
In  a  moment  Ann  opened  the  door,  I  heard  them 
Enquire  for  my  mother,  and  heard  her  reply 
That  she  was  away  ;  she  believed,  though,  that  I 
Was  at  home.     So  at  once  turned  to  show  them  into 
The  parlor,  but — most  fortunately,  'tis  true — 
The  key  I  had  turned  when  they  rang,  and  she  found 
The  door  fastened.     And  so  after  upstairs  and  down 
She  had  looked  for  me  vainly,  informed  them  that  I 
Must  also  have  gone  out.     And  when,  by  the  by, 
Their  names  they  had  given,  I  found  them  to  be 
Two  of  our  own  church  ladies  most  prominent.     He 
Wished  to  know  who  they  were,  and  I  told  him.     How 

shocked 
They'd  have  been,  if  the  door  had  not  chanced  to  be  locked, 
And  they  had  been  shown  in  the  parlors,  to  find 
Him  and  me  there  alone.     'Twould  created  a  fine 
Piece  of  scandal,  no  doubt.     But  I  wonder,  in  time, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  133 

That  I  thought  to  do  so  ;  but  'twas  well  that  I  did, 
Thus  escaping  unpleasant  exposure. 

Amid 
So  much  interruption,  the  afternoon  passed 
Away  but  too  swiftly.     Hours  too  bright  to  last 
Glided  rapidly  onward.     Why  cannot  we  stay 
The  swift  flight  of  Time  ?     Sometimes  bid  a  to-day 
So  happy  and  joyous  to  tarry  alway  ? 
We  did  have  a  nice,  pleasant  time  this  P.M. 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  for  years  known  my  friend. 
Was  just  as  affectionate,  gentle,  and  kind, 
And  charming,  to-day,  as  he  was  the  last  time 
He  was  here.     And  I  do  like  him  much,  and  I  guess 
That  he  does  me  a  little.     And  yet,  I  confess 
That  my  feelings  have  been  vastly  different  this  eve 
Than  they  were  the  last  time ;  and  think  I  may  believe 
I  have  conquered  that  fancy. 

The  reason  he  wrote 
Not  a  word  about  coming,  within  his  last  note, 
Was  that  it  was  written  on  Tuesday ;  the  boy 
Let  the  mail  all  lie  over,  and  which  did  annoy 
Him  much  ;  but  supposed  that  I'd  receive  mine 
Yesterday  afternoon.     I  coaxed  him  for  some  time 
To  give  back  my  letters ;  but  he  would  not  say 
That  he  would  or  would  not,  only  that  he  some  day 
Desired  "  reading  them  backwards."     That's  all  the  reply 
I  could  get  to  my  teasing.     It  seems  he  is  quite 
Immovable  when  he  once  makes  up  his  mind, 
And  he's  not  to  be  coaxed,  neither  driven,  I  find, 
Into  what  he  decides  not  to  do.     But  I  thought 
Him  more  pleasing  in  his  conversation,  and  not 


134:  STOLEN  WATERS. 

The  less  fascinating  in  manner,  to-day, 

Than  when  he  was  with  me  before.     Can  but  say 

That  in  eVery  respect  he's  a  gentleman,  too, 

And  I  like  him  extremely !     My  Journal,  don't  you  ? 

I  went  out  the  evening  to  pass  with  some  friends, 
Which  I'm  sure  I  could  not  done  the  last  time ;  but  then, 
As  I've  previously  said,  I  am  now  feeling  quite 
IndhT 'rent  to  him  when  compared  to  that  night. 
His  presence  to-day  gave  me  much  pleasure,  though, 
And  the  evening  has  been  very  happy  also, 
Filled  with  thoughts  of  his  tenderness,  manliness,  grace, 
His  good  sense,  his  kind  words,  and  his  loving  embrace 
As  he  kissed  me  at  parting.     May  he  have  to-night 
Happy  thoughts  'till  he  sleeps,  and  then  dreams  of  delight ! 


January  2ith}  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

One  more  dreary  week  has  vanished  and  passed, 
But  I've  naught  to  record,  since  when  here  I  wrote  last, 
Except  disappointment  and  pain,  discontent, 
"Wounded  pride,  and  displeasure. 

Last  Sabbath,  I  went 
To  church  morn  and  eve.     Our  new  singer  was  there, 
And  he  sat  back  with  her  in  the  morn.     Did  I  care  ? 
Not  so  much  as  I  should  have  a  few  weeks  ago. 
Remained  in  the  "  corner  "  that  evening,  although, 
And  sent  to  me  glances  both  smiling  and  sweet, 
Whenever  my  eyes  I  allowed  his  to  meet, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  135 

Which  was  not  very  often.     I'm  sure  he  could  read 
Naught  but  coldness,  indifference  in  mine,  and,  indeed, 
I  felt  coldly  to  him.     When  they  sang  the  last  hymn 
I  saw  the  new  singer  and  him  whispering ; 
They  pretended  that  it  was  the  music  about — 

Perhaps  that  it  was !     Mrs.  ,  his  wife — was  out. 

I  wish  she  would  stay  home. 

Monday,  went  o'er  to  B. 
It  rained,  I  got  wet,  the  result  was  to  me 
A  cold  most  severe ;  and  the  next  day  I  could 
Hardly  hold  up  my  head. 

Mother  thought  that  she  should 
Go  up  to  my  brother's  on  Thursday  ;  at  length 
Decided  she  would  not;  so  I  did  not  send, 
Of  course,  for  my  friend,  until  Frank  that  A.M. 
Came  up  here  and  said  that  the  baby  was  sick, 
And  wished  her  to  go ;  so  she  dressed  just  as  quick 
As  she  could,  and  went  off;  and  then,  writing  to  him, 
I  sent  it  down  town  by  a  friend  who  was  in — 
Making  him  understand  'twas  an  order  for  books. 
I  told  him  I  knew  he  could  come,  and  I  looked 
For  him,  too  ;  but  be  did  not.     I  felt  just  as  vexed 
As  I  could  do,  of  course  ;  and  I  thought  I  would  next 
A  letter  send  him  he  would  quite  understand ; 
Make  a  change  for  the  better,  or  else  be  a  grand 
Winding-up  of  the  whole. 

And  I  wrote,  I  could  see, 
I  thought,  how  it  was ;  he  was  getting  to  be 
Tired  of  our  correspondence — disliked  to  say  so  ; 
But  he  said  voluntarily,  some  time  ago, 
That  when  weary  of  it  he'd  at  once  let  me  know. 


136  STOLEN  WATERS. 

So  I  meant  that  he  should ;  and  I  said  'twas  to  me 
Most  certainly  pleasant — but  only  while  he 
"Wrote  promptly ;   but  since  then  had  been  much  more  pain 
Than  pleasure,  indeed.     Then  I  wrote, 

"  It  is  plain 
You  care  not  for  me,  and  I  never  once  thought 
That  you  did  ;  and  I  also  can  say  I  do  not 
Care  much  for  you,  either.     The  crisis  has  passed ! 
Your  recent  neglect  has  been  withering  fast 
All  affection's  sweet  roses,  too  fragile  to  last, 
Which  had  bloomed  in  my  bosom  for  you,  until  naught 
Remains  but  a  few  faded  leaves  which  I  caught 
As  they  dropped  from  the  stem ;  and  these,  too,  I  shall  now 
Gather  up,  with  your  letters  and  words,  and  allow 
The  '  dead  past  to  bury  its  dead.'     I  shall  see 
You  frequently,  but  you  have  lost  over  me 
All  your  power.     I  shall  not  forget  you,  indeed, 
And  neither  shall  you  forget  '  your  Bitter  Sweet '  (?) 
"While  you  sing  in  that  choir,  and  I  sit  in  the  seat 
I  now  do  in  church.     I  am  weary  of  wooing ; 
New  business  it  is  to  me,  I've  been  pursuing ; 
And  I  do  not  think  I  have  had  much  success, 
And  shall  not  attempt  it  again,  I  confess ; 
I  will  not  coax  any  man,  not  even  yout 
And  if  there  is  any  more  wooing  to  do, 
'Twill  not  be  on  my  side." 

And  then,  at  the  close, 
I  wrote  that  I  left  it  with  him  to  dispose, 
According  to  his  inclination.     That  is 
To  say,  at  once  candidly,  if  'twas  his  wish, 
To  our  correspondence  close  now ;  and  if  so, 
Or  if  not,  I  requested  that  he'd  let  me  know 


STOLEN  WATERS.  137 

By  a  note  Sunday  eve  without  fail.     And  I  trust 
It  may  bring  a  change,  and  indeed  think  it  must. 

Before  I  had  sent  this,  the  following  day, 
I  an  answer  received  to  my  other,  to  say, 
He  had  just  returned  home  from  the  country,  and  found 
My  note,  but  could  not  possibly  get  up  town 
That  p.m.,  as  he'd  business  he  could  not  defer ; 
So  we'd  have  to  postpone  it.     Wrote  but  a  few  words, 
Scarce  a  page,  but  most  kindly.     So  then  what  to  do, 
About  sending  my  letter,  indeed  hardly  knew. 
But  at  length  thought  I  would,  the  result  of  it  be 
What  it  might. 

Lorette  came  up  to-day,  and  with  me 
Went  to  church.     He  sat  back  with  the  singers  again. 
She  asked  if  I  saw  how  he  looked  at  me  when 
They  wei'e  singing.     I  did  see,  or  rather  I  knew 
His  eyes  were  on  me,  though  I  would  not,  'tis  true, 
Look  fully  at  him.     After  service,  Lorette 
And  I  went  down  town  a  short  distance.     We  met 
My  friend  and  his  wife  at  the  corner,  and  each 
Walked  down  the  same  street  'till  their  door  they  had 

reached — 
But  we  on  the  opposite  side — and  as  he 
Turned  in  closing  the  door  he  sent  over  to  me 
Smile  and  bow,  too,  of  greeting  most  kind.     We  came  back 
The  same  way,  some  time  later.     Lorette  said  he  sat 
At  the  window ;  so  doubtless  he  saw  us,  but  I 
Did  not  glance  toward  there  while  the  house  passing  by. 
This  evening  he  sat  in  the  "corner."     I  thought 
He  was  writing,  but  now  I  suppose  he  was  not. 


138  STOLEN  WATERS. 

As  he  gave  me  no  letter — most  provoking  man  ! — 
Notwithstanding  my  urgent  request.    And  how  can 
I  avoid  feeling  coolly  and  cross  to  him,  too, 
If  he  does  look  so  kindly  at  me  ?     And  1  dot 


January  31st,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

The  letter  I  so  much  desired  last  Sunday 
Was  on  Wednesday  received.     Not  a  word  did  he  say 
About  our  correspondence  now  closing ;  but  said 
That  he  was  last  Sabbath  so  situated 
'Twas  impossible  quite  he  should  give  me  a  note. 
His  letter  was  pleasant  and  kind,  and  he  wrote 
At  some  length  beside,  and  he  hoped  that  to  me 
It  might  be  acceptable.     Thought  there  would  be 
A  change  in  the  choir  before  long.     There  had  been 
The  previous  day  a  committee  to  him, 
From  some  other  church,  and  he  could  not  tell  what 
Might  be  the  result.     But  I  hope  he  will  not 
Leave  the  choir.     I  am  sure  if  I  really  thought 
He  would,  I  should  be  more  unhappy  than  now. 
Though  'twould  hardly  be  possible,  I  will  allow. 
Said  he  saw  me  go  up  street  on  Sunday  noon  last. 

And  as  to  to-day,  it,  as  usual,  has  passed 
Quite  fleetly,  if  not  very  pleasantly.     He 
Sat  back  in  the  choir  morn  and  eve ;  but  on  me 
He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  during  singing,  and  the 
Benediction  as  well,  leaning  over  to  see 


STOLEN  WATERS.  139 

Me  as  I  passed  out,  though  I  would  not  give  him 

One  full  glance  in  return.     After  all,  though,  I've  been 

And  have  felt  toward  him  much  less  coolly-  to-day 

Than  I  have  for  some  time.     If  he'd  but  keep  away 

From  our  new  soprano,  I  think  I'd  not  be 

Quite  so  cross  with  him.     So,  I  am  jealous,  you  see, 

My  Journal !     The  fact  is,  I  have  not  one  bit 

Of  confidence  in  him ;  for  if  he  sees  fit 

To  flirt  so  with  me,  he  with  others  will,  too, 

And  I  cannot  respect  a  man  who  is  untrue 

In  what  should  be  the  dearest  relations  of  life. 

Let  me  once  get  my  letters  from  him,  and  then  I've 

Done  with  him. 

"  /S7ie"  was  there,  too,  this  evening — his  wife  ; — 
She  watches  me  closely,  as  if  she  might  be 
Just  the  least  trifle  jealous.     She  need  not — of  me. 
And  I  was  of  her  once,  but  think  I'm  not  now, 
For  she's  much  more  cause  than  jThave,  I'll  allow. 


February  \st,  1864. 

MONDAY. 

I  imagine  the  end  can  be  not  distant  far ! 
That  the  time  swift  approaches  when  he  and  I  are 
To  become  merely  strangers  again.     And  to-day 
Has  been  an  eventful  one,  I  can  but  say  ! 
In  the  first  place,  this  morn  I  a  letter  received 
From  him,  which  was  written  on  Saturday  eve : 
Was  just  going  up  to  rehearsal,  he  wrote. 


140  STOLEN  WATERS. 

"  'Twas  a  bore,  should  be  glad  when  relieved  1  "      But  I 

hope 
That  time  will  not  come  very  soon. 

"  I  suppose 
I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  he  writes,  near  the  close — 
"  But  know  not  as  then  I  shall  hardly  dare  meet 
Your  eyes,  lest  I  see  that  you  look,  Bitter  Sweet, 
So  frowningly  at  me  because  I  have  not 
Replied  to  your  letter  before,  as  I  thought 
To  be  able  to  do.     This  is,  though,  the  first  chance 
I  have  had." 

But  there  was  not  much  fear  in  his  glance 
Last  Sabbath,  nor  did  I  frown  much,  I  believe. 
But  he  wrote  before  this — 

"la  letter  received 
Anonymously  but  a  few  days  ago, 
In  regard  to  my  visiting  up  town ;  and  so 
It  seems  some  one  saw  me,  has  taken  the  pains 
To  warn  me  of  it,  and  attributes  the  same 
To  bad  motives.     Perhaps  'tis  as  well,  for  although 
My  mind's  free  from  wrong,  others  may  not  think  so. 
And  a  mere  friendly  visit  construe  thus  into 
Something  worse.     Well !    we  all  are  quite  likely,  'tis  true, 
To  judge  from  appearance!     Unjustly,  sometimes,* 
As  in  this  case.     And  we  should  perhaps  bear  in  mind 
The  old  proverb,  '  Avoid  all  appearance  of  wrong.'  " 

I  knew  in  a  moment  just  where  it  came  from — 
The  caller  I  had  the  last  time  he  was  here ; 
From  no  one  else  could  it  have  come.     It  is  clear 
She  saw  him  come  in,  and,  they  living  so  near 


STOLEN  WATERS.  141 

To  each  other,  she  certainly  must  have  known  him  ; 

So  suppose  that  she  made  up  her  mind  to  come  in 

And  ascertain  why  he  was  there.     I  thought,  then, 

Rather  strange  she  should  ask  if  she  might,  and,  too,  when 

She'd  already  said  all  necessary  to  say. 

She's  contemptible  !     Bad  as  I  am,  or  she  may 

Think  I  am — for  I  fancy  I'm  not,  by  the  way, 

Any  worse  than  she  is — I  would  ne'er  condescend 

To  do  aught  so  mean.     Force  herself  in,  and  then 

Take  advantage  of  what  she  discovered,  to  send 

An  anonymous  letter  to  him.     She  is  not, 

Neither  is  her  opinion,  deserving  a  thought ! 

But  it  is  rather  galling  to  be  so  misjudged, 

To  a  proud  girl  like  me,  it  is  true  !     But  then,  fudge ! 

It  is  not  worth  minding,  to  come  from  that  source, 

Though  for  his  sake,  it  could  bvit  annoy  me,  of  course. 

But  if  it  don't  get  to  his  wife  I  don't  care ! 

Finished  reading  my  letter,  I  went  right  downstairs, 
And  nearly  the  first  thing,  mamma  asked  me  where 
My  letter  was  from.     An  evasive  reply 
Was  I  forced  to  make.     This  concealment,  though,  I 
Can  hardly  endure.      'Tis  quite  foreign  to  my 
Nature,  habit,  and  wish.     But  it  shall  not  be  so ! 
I  will  sever  all  ties  that  now  bind  us,  although 
My  heart  it  should  break.     Though  there  is  not  much  fear 
Of  that,  I  imagine  !     Instead,  it  is  clear 
'Twill  be  more  a  relief  than  aught  else  to  me.     Yet, 
Can  I  give  him  up  ?     It  will  be  hard,  I  expect, 
Although  it  must  be. 

Mother  said  that  a  week 
Ago  yesterday,  she  had  gone  for  a  sheet 


142  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Of  note-paper  to  my  portfolio,  and  saw 

It  was  locked.     But  she  thought  that  perhaps  she  might 

draw 
Some  forth  from  the  leaves  in  between.     So  she  tried, 
And  she  did ;  but  she  drew  something  else,  too,  beside. 
One  sheet  of  the  letter — or  copy — I  sent 
Him  the  previous  week  ;  and  which  also  I  meant 
Upstairs  to  have  taken,  and  placed  in  my  desk, 
And  did  the  next  day.     An  envelope  addressed 
To  him  I  have  been  very  careful,  all  through, 
Not  to  keep,  lest  some  person  should  see  it ;  and,  too, 
Whene'er  there  has  been  anything  of  the  kind 
Within  my  portfolio  before,  any  time, 
In  the  pockets  I  always  have  placed  it,  and  not 
The  leaves  in  between ;  but  this  time  my  forethought 
Seems  quite  to  have  left  me.     She  read  it  all  through, 
Told  how  it  commenced,  and  some  things  I  wrote,  too, 
And  quoted  verbatim — "  I  shan't  forget  you, 
You  shall  not  forget  me,  long  as  you  continue 
To  sing  in  that  choir,  and  I  sit  in  the  pew 
That  I  now  do  in  church."     So  I  saw  that  she  knew 
The  whole  story,  and  farther  dissembling  would  be 
Both  useless,  and  also  impossible.     She 
Said  she  "  hoped  that  it  might  be  the  bass-singer,  and 
Could  not  think  I'd  been  writing  to  a  married  man." 
And  why  did  I  do  it  ?     Foolish  girl  that  I  am  ! 
I  told  her  I  thought  no  more  of  him  than  she, 
And,  as  soon  as  my  letters  I  could  obtain,  we 
Would  be  done  with  each  other. 

So  I  must  tell  him 
When  I  have  a  good  chance.     I  don't  like  to  go  in 


STOLEN  WATERS.  143 

To  the  store,  so  must  wait  until  be  comes  out  here. 

And  no  knowing  when  that  time  will  come,  but  I  fear 

'Twill  be  not  very  soon.     And  I  do  wonder  what 

"Will  come  next  ?    "  It  ne'er  rains,  but  it  pours !  "  and  I 

thought 
There  was  truth  in  the  proverb  to-day. 

This  P.M. 
I  wrote  him  a  note  ;   have  not  sent  it. 

Well,  when 
We  part,  we'll  part  friends.     One  more  meeting,  and  then — 


February  7th,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Nothing  very  important  since  here  I  last  wrote. 
Last  Wednesday  A.M.,  there  arrived  a  brief  note 
From  my  friend ;  and  he  spoke  of  the  one  he  received, 
And  he  writes — 

"Who  it  came  from  I  cannot  conceive, 
Can  you  ?     You  must  see  that  will  render  it,  though, 
Impossible  for  me  at  present  to  go 
Out  to  see  you." 

I  do  wish  that  some  people  would 
Their  own  affairs  mind !     It  would  do  them  more  good, 
And  cause  much  less  trouble.     I  had  not  sent  mine 
That  I  wrote  him  on  Monday,  so  added  a  line, 
And  sent  it  that  day.     And  I  wrote  him  I  thought, 
After  reading  the  rest  of  my  letter,  he'd  not 


144  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Have  much  doubt  "where  his  came  from,  and  asked  him 

to  send 
It  to  me  for  perusal.     I  told  him  I  then 
Expected  that  something  would  come  of  her  call, 
But  thought  not  of  that ;  neither  cared  I  at  all, 
If  it  did  not  through  her  reach  his  wife.     And  I  hope 
It  will  not,  for  her  own  sake  and  his  too.     I  wrote, 
"  I  am  sure  'twas  from  her,  so  you  see  that  there  would 
Be  no  danger  in  your  coming  up,  if  I  could 
Opportunity  give  to  you  ;  but  I  cannot 
Just  at  present.     But  you  seem  to  have  not  a  thought 
That  Pve  aught  at  stake." 

I  wrote  nothing  about 
My  mother's  discovery ;  'till  he  comes  out, 
I  thought  I  would  wait  ere  I  told  him.     Have  had 
Not  as  yet  any  answer  to  that,  though  I  half 
Expected  one  yesterday  morn. 

This  A.M., 
I  of  course  went  to  church.     He  was  there,  and  again 
Sat  back  with  the  rest  of  the  singers,  and  I 
Felt  jealous  as  usual.     I  do  not  see  why 
He  does  so,  I'm  sure !  for  he  never  used  to 
Until  the  new  singer  came  ;  now,  it  is  true, 
He  does  nearly  always. 

Was  given  to-night 
In  the  chapel  a  Sabbath-school  concert.     'Twas  quite 
A  good  one.     He  was  not  of  course  there,  but  "  she" — 
His  wife — was,  and  sat,  too,  one  seat  back  of  me. 
After  concert,  her  little  boy  came  to  her  seat ; 
So  I've  seen  him  at  last !     He's  the  image  complete 
Of  his  father.     He  has  the  same  eye,  dark  and  deep, 
The  small  mouth,  pouting  lips,  and  the  same  rounded  cheek, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  145 

And,  more  like  him  than  all,  same  expression  of  mild, 
Sweet  good-humor.     And  he  is  a  beautiful  child ! 
And  I  fancy  that  she  thinks  so,  too,  by  the  tone 
Of  fondness  with  which  she  addressed  him.     I  own 
That  she  well  may  be  proud  of  her  fine,  lovely  boy. 
I  wonder  where  he  was  to-night,  how  employed ! 

The  Sabbath-school  had  a  rehearsal  last  night. 
I  went.     The  choir,  too,  were  rehearsing.     I'd  liked 
To  have  looked  in  a  moment  on  them,  I  confess ; 
But  of  course  I  could  not,  and  was  forced  to  repress 
All  longings  to  see  my  dear  friend,  'till  to-day, 
And  then  was  not  quite  satisfied,  I  must  say. 


February  12th,  1864. 

FRIDAY. 

Friday  Eve !  and  once  more  all  alone  in  my  room, 

With  my  journal  before  me,  my  pen  I  resume, 

To  inscribe  on  its  pages  the  passing  events 

Of  the  week  nearly  gone,  of  a  day  of  content, 

Which  also  hastes  fast  to  its  close.     And  I,  too, 

Must  with  brevity  say  all  I'm  wishing  to  do, 

And  seek  my  repose. 

Tuesday  last,  I  believe, 

From  Colonel  Allair  I  a  letter  received, 

And  one  from  my  "friend  "  on  the  following  day. 

He  writes — 

"  I  have  felt  much  annoyed,  I  must  say, 

Since  receiving  the  note  which  I  spoke  of  to  you, 
In  my  last ;  and  I  cannot  imagine  yet,  who 
7 


146  STOLEN  WATERS, 

Its  author  could  be.     I  can  scarcely  think,  though, 

It  came  from  the  party  that  called,  as  I  know 

I  never  saw  her  before ;  but  it  might  be 

Possible,  I  suppose,  that  she  may  have  known  me. 

So  vexed  did  I  feel,  then,  that  I  destroyed  it 

At  once !  but  have  many  times  wished,  I  admit, 

That  I  had  not,  as  I  would  have  liked  you  to  see 

The  note,  though  'twas  not  very  likely  to  be — 

The  handwriting — familiar  to  you.     I  can't  free 

My  mind  from  the  thought  that  they're  yet  waiting  for 

The  next  visit." 

But  I  don't  at  all  think  so !  nor 
Have  I  any  doubt  where  it  came  from,  as  I 
Said  before,  three  or  four  days  ago ;  or  that  my 
Visitor  and  his  new  correspondent  are  one. 

My  sister  has  been  wishing  mother  to  come 
And  see  her,  for  some  time,  and  when  she  went  home 
Mamma  promised  to  do  so.     She  Wednesday  received 
A  summons  to  come  on  immediately, 
As  my  sister  was  ill.     So  she  left  us  this  morn, 
And  three  or  four  weeks,  I  suppose,  will  be  gone. 
I  sent  him  an  answer  to  his  yesterday, 
And  wrote  him  that  mother  was  going  away, 
And  asked  him  if  he  would  come  out  this  p.m. 
I  looked  for  his  coming  'till  half-past  two,  when 
I  quite  gave  him  up,  and  had  taken  a  book 
And  been  reading  some  moments,  when  chancing  to  look 
Out  the  window,  I  saw  he  was  just  passing  by. 
My  book  was  thrown  down  in  an  instant,  and  I 
At  the  door  to  admit  him. 

He  said  what  I  wrote 
About  coming  up  to-day,  he  did  not  note, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  147 

Until  two  o'clock.     That  my  letter  he  then 

Had  just  taken  out  to  look  over  again, 

And  as  soon  as  he  saw  that  he  came  right  away. 

I  wrote  him  in  pencil,  and  that  was  in  a 

"  P.  S.,"  I  believe,  why  he  did  not  see  it. 

I  told  him  about  mamma,  and  I  admit 
He  took  it  quite  coolly,  seemed  vexed  not  one  bit, 
But  laughingly  asked  why  I  did  not  permit 
Her  still  to  think  it  was  the  bass-singer  ! 

I 
Enquired  the  first  time  he  was  here,  by  the  by, 
Where  my  letters  he  kept,  and  he  told  me  within 
A  drawer  in  his  desk ;  and  to-day  I  asked  him 
If  its  contents  he  brought,  and  he  said,  no;  that  he 
Could  not  get  to  them,  as  he  had  broken  the  key. 
But  so  roguishly  I  could  but  know  he  was  not 
The  truth  telling  me,  and  that  he  could  have  got 
Them,  had  he  desired  to.     I  coaxed  him  to  bring 
Them  out  the  next  time  that  he  came,  but  a  thing 
Satisfactory  I  coiild  not  get  in  reply, 
Or  nothing,  at  least,  on  which  I  could  rely. 
I  told  him  I  knew  he  would  ne'er  have  the  time 
For  "reading  them  backwards/" 

While  teasing  for  mine, 
He  said  not  one  word  of  my  giving  back  his. 
If  he  had,  I  should  not.     Had  he  told  me,  "  That  is 
The  condition  alone  on  which  I'll  return  yours," 
I  should  said  not  another  word  of  it,  I'm  sure. 
I  can't  give  them  up,  come  what  may !     So  I  teased, 
And  coaxed,  and  persuaded,  aud  he  at  his  ease, 
Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  laughed  in  answer,  or  gave 
Sometimes  a  caress  for  reply,  or  else  made 


148  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Unto  each  argument  some  objection ;  at  length, 
He  said — and  his  tone  changed  to  ice — he  would  send 
Them,  certainly,  if  I  insisted  on  it. 
But  that  he  had  not  all  of  them,  he'd  admit ; 
When  they  were  about  him  sometimes,  he  had  been 
Obliged  to  destroy  them,  lest  they  should  be  seen. 
He  thought  he  would  come  out  next  Tuesday  again. 
From  school  Gertie  came  ere  he  left  me,  but  went 
Right  downstairs ;  then  he  bade  me  good-by. 

Well,  we  spent 
An  afternoon  pleasant  indeed  ;  or  at  least 
To  me.     He  is  splendid,  I  think,  and  was  pleased 
Much  as  ever,  to-day,  with  him. 

But  I  must  not 
Write  more  at  this  time.     To  my  "friend"'''  many  thoughts 
I  am  sending  to-night,  and  with  fond  wishes  fraught. 


February  ltih,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Quite  a  nice,  pleasant  day  this  has  been,  and  I  come, 
At  its  close,  to  write  here  of  it ;  and  I  have  some 
News,  my  Journal,  to  tell  you.     Last  night  we  received 
A  telegram,  saying  the  previous  eve 
Mamma  safely  at  her  destination  arrived — 
Fannie's  husband  it  came  from — and  that  his  dear  wife 
Had  a  very  fine  boy  born  that  morn. 

Gertie  went 
To  Tarrytown  yesterday  ;  brother  Frank  sent 


STOLEN  WATERS.  149 

For  father  and  I  to  dine  with  him  to-day. 

So  we  went  after  church.     Passed  his  house  on  the  way. 

When  we  first  came  in  sight,  he  was  standing  between 

The  windows,  but  then  he — I  think,  having  seen 

Us  coming — sat  down  with  a  paper  to  read ! 

So  I  saw  him  distinctly.     And  he  is,  indeed, 

A  darling,  I  think  ;  and  was  charming  to-night ! 

But  he  sat  with  the  singers.     The  "  corner  "  is  quite 

Deserted  of  late.     "Well !  there  is,  I  suppose, 

More  attraction  elsewhere  than  that  offers ;  who  knows  ? 


February  28th,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

"  I'm  homesick,  and  heartsick,  and  weary  of  life !  " 
Its  pleasures,  its  follies,  its  turmoil,  its  strife  ! 
I  am  weary  of  all  that  I've  tasted  below, 
I  am  weary  of  friend,  and  I'm  weary  of  foe. 
And  friends  (?),  what  are  they?     When  joy  brightens  our 

skies, 
They  flutter  around  us  like  gay  butterflies, 
Display  their  bright  colors,  their  rainbow-hued  wings. 
Ah  !  they're  happy,  and  joyous,  and  beautiful  things  ! 
But  touch  their  bright  spots  and  their  beauty  is  gone. 
They  spread  their  frail  wings,  and  then  soon  flutter  on. 
Yes  !  when  sorrow's  dark  clouds  have  our  heavens  o'ercast, 
We  find,  all  too  soon,  their  rich  hues  will  not  last. 
On  a  frail  "  broken  reed  "  we've  been  placing  our  trust, 
Our  friends  are  all  false,  and  their  vows  naught  but  dust. 


150  STOLEN  WATERS. 

"  Prosperity  wins  them,  adversity  tries," 

They're  ours  while  the  sun  shines,  when  shade  comes  they 

"  I'm  homesick,  and  heartsick,  and  weary  of  life  !  " 

Its  dearest  enjoyment  with  poison  is  rife. 

Enjoyment  ?  what  is  it,  and  where  to  be  found  ? 

In  fashion's  gay  haunts  where  mirth  seems  to  abound  ? 

Ah,  no !     Is  not  there  beneath  all  this  glitter 

Some   hearts   that   are   aching — less   sweet   thoughts    than 

bitter  ? 
Some  one  has  said  that  "  Home,  Mother,  and  Heaven 
Are  the  three  sweetest  words  to  our  hearts  ever  given." 
Home?     Do  we  not  find  in  each  household  band 
Some  chord  that  will  vibrate,  if  swept  by  rude  hand  ? 
A  circle  e'er  find  but  one  faithless  one's  there, 
Ever  a  fireside,  but  has  one  vacant  chair  ? 
Mother  ?  Though  her  love  is  as  deep  as  'tis  pure, 
Seek  we  not  farther  ?  though  find  none  that's  truer. 
Memory  points  us  to  counsels  we've  slighted, 
To  eyes  dimmed  by  tears  that  sweet  smiles  should  have 

lighted. 
Heaven  ?     "  Patience  is  bitter  if  the  fruit  is  sweet !  " 
The  way's  long  and  dreary,  the  thorns  pierce  our  feet. 
Though  tempting  the  goal,  beyond  price  the  reward, 
'Tis  won  but  by  toils,  trials,  faith  in  the  Lord. 
"  I'm  homesick,  and  heartsick,  and  weary  of  life  !  " 
"Weary  of  love,  friendship — yes  !  weary  of  life. 
Love !  oh,  how  fragile,  how  transient  a  flower ! 
And  yet  are  not  all  of  us  swayed  by  its  power  ? 
It  brightens  our  pathway  for  one  fleeting  day, 
We  fondly  imagine  'twill  ne'er  fade  away. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  151 

But  too  soon  we  awake  from  the  sweet,  blissful  dream, 

To  find  hearts  are  faithless,  love  not  what  it  seems. 

Friendship  ?     'Tis  an  empty,  a  meaningless  word  ; 

'Tis  fraught  with  heart- achings,  with  sighs  breathed  un- 
heard. 

True  'tis  to  you  when  there  is  aught  to  be  gained ; 

When  needed  most,  leaves  your  fond  hearts  to  be  pained 

By  its  fickleness,  untruth,  and  heartless  disdain ; 

To  find  your  hopes  blighted,  your  faith  all  in  vain. 

Life  !  what  is  that  ?     Ask  the  poet  or  painter, 

Ask  him  whose  weak  voice  with  age  daily  grows  fainter. 

The  poet  in  eloquent  verse  will  portray 

Its  joys  and  its  sorrows,  smooth  paths  and  rough  ways. 

The  artist  will  paint  you  with  light  here,  thei'e  shade, 

A  cradle — an  altar — a  grave  newly  made. 

The  old  man  will  say  'tis  a  meteor  bright, 

One  moment  'tis  noonday,  the  next  it  is  night. 

"  I'm  homesick,  and  heartsick,  and  weary  of  life !  ** 

There's  nothing  but  bitterness,  nothing  but  strife ! 

Bickerings  without,  and  temptations  within, 

Smiles  battling  with  tears,  and  purity  with  sin. 

Hopes  are  crushed  at  one  blow,  and  true  hearts  are  be- 
trayed, 

Love's  Eden  is  entered,  home  desolate  made. 

Dishonor  is  stamped  upon  many  a  brow, 

Disgrace  hangs  «'er  those  that  were  happy  but  now ; 

The  death  angel  dark  hovers  o'er  our  bright  land, 

Touching  here  one,  and  there  one,  with  his  icy  hand, 

Gathering  around  him.  his  mantle  of  gloom, 

Only  to  drop  it  o'er  some  lonely  tomb. 

War  o'er  our  country  spreads  its  desolation, 

Brother  'gainst  brother,  and  nation  'gainst  nation, 


152  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Pure  streams  dyed  with  hearts'  blood,  fields  red  and  gory, 
Lives  yielding  all  up  to  country  and  glory. 
Deep  is  the  darkness,  the  night  is  dreary, 
I'm  homesick,  heartsick,  of  life  I  am  weary. 

It  has  been  a  long  time  since  I've  written  in  here. 
Two  weeks !  that  in  passing,  have  seemed  long  and  drear. 
Two  weeks,  which  have  brought  in  their  flitting  to  me, 
A  few  gleams  of  joy,  but  much  more  misery. 
For  writing  no  heart  I  have  had,  or  for  aught 
Else  beside  where  was  requisite  much  composed  thought ; 
And  to-day  I  so  restless  have  been  all  the  time, 
I  thought  that  it  possibly  might  ease  my  mind, 
To  talk  for  a  short  time,  my  Journal,  with  you, 
And  something  tell  you  of  the  past  week  or  two  ; 
The  record's  too  humiliating,  though,  quite 
Too  troubled  and  sad  to  be  pleasant  to  write. 

The  week  following  his  latest  visit  to  me, 
I  received  not  a  word  from  him,  nor  did  I  see 
Him  as  I  expected.     You  know  he  said  then 
He  thought  he  would  come  the  next  Tuesday — but  when 
Tuesday  came  a  most  terrible  storm  raged.     The  next 
Day  was  not  much  better,  nor  did  I  expect 
Him  of  course  !  And  the  rest  of  the  week  was,  although 
Fair  and  clear,  cold  intensely,  and  I  did  not  know 
But  possibly  that  might  the  reason  be  why 
He  did  not  come  up.     I  wrote  him,  by  the  by, 
Once  or  twice  in  the  interim.     Day  after  day 
I  watched  for  his  coming — a  letter — alway 
To  be  disappointed.     And  no  one  can  know 
How  restless,  unhappy,  I  felt,  and  how  slow 


STOLEN  WATERS.  153 

Draped  each  wearisome  hour.    In  that  way  the  week  passed 

With  no  tidings  whatever  ;  and  Sabbath  at  last 

Arrived,  and  I  went  out  to  church.     He  was  there, 

As  usual ;  but  I,  feeling  too  vexed  to  care 

To  see  him,  my  eyes  kept  averted,  nor  met 

His  own  scarcely  once.     For  I  could  not  forget 

How  unkind  he  had  been.     There  may  have,  I  concede, 

Been  something  his  coming  to  hinder,  indeed ; 

He  might,  though,  have  written,  and  not  have  keot  me 

In  constant  suspense  the  whole  week.     Or  if  he 

Did  not  wish  to  come  up  here  why  could  not  he  say  so  ? 

I'd  like  it  much  better  than  that  he  should  play  so 

With  my  feelings  and  wishes. 

My  father  went  out 
To  my  brother's  to  dine  that  day,  but  'twas  about 
All  that  I  could  do  home  to  remain ;  and  I  knew 
I  could  not  be  sociable  if  I  tried  to. 
So  I  thought  that  the  best  place  for  me  was  at  home, 
And  I  spent  the  whole  day  between  service  alone. 
Well !  the  next  day — on  Monday — I  sent  him  a  note 
Which  was  one  piece  of  sarcasm  all  through ;  and  wrote 
Him  without  fail  to  come  up  the  next  day  and  bring 
My  letters,  and  I'd  nevermore  say  a  thing 
About  his  again  coming  up.     Tuesday,  I 
Was  looking  for  him,  and  I  saw  passing  by 
A  boy,  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  addressed 
To  some  one  :  I  saw  one  initial,  the  rest 
His  hand  hid.     He  went  on  to  the  end  of  the  row, 
Made  inquiries,  came  back,  rang  our  bell,  then,  and  so 
Of  course  I  suspected  that  it  was  for  me — 
The  book  in  his  hand — and  it  thus  proved  to  be. 
7* 


154  STOLEN  WATERS. 

No  message  he  gave  me,  but  when  I  removed 
The  wrapper,  I  found  a  sealed  note,  and  which  proved 
To  be  written  by  him.     There  were  also  with  this 
A  dozen  or  so  of  my  letters.     Well,  his 
I  opened  at  once.     Commenced 
"  My  Bitter-Sweet :  " 

"  I  was  gone  out  of  town  nearly  all  of  last  week, 
But  your  letters  have  all  been  received.     All  I  find 
Is  i  those  letters  I  want ! '     I  told  you,  the  last  time 
That  I  saw  you,  I  had  not  them  all ;  and  you  say 
Not  one  word  of  returning  me  mine,  by  the  way. 
And  now  as  the  letters  the  uppermost  thing 
In  your  mind  seems  to  be,  I  return  half — will  bring 
Or  send  you  the  rest  when  all  mine  I  receive. 
This  is  no  more  than  fair.     And  you  said,  I  believe, 
That  you  still  had  them  all ;  and  if  you  return  them 
You  shall  have  all  of  yours,  not  destroyed,  and  you  then 
No  more  trouble  about  them  will  have  on  your  mind. 
So  busy  am  I  that  I  cannot  find  time 
To  go  up  town  to-day,  even  if  I  dared  to. 

"  Yours  in  haste. 

"  Antony." 

When  I  this  had  read  through, 
The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  sit  down  and  write 
An  answer  to  his,  which  I  mailed  the  same  night. 
By  the  way,  too,  not  one  of  the  letters  returned 
Were  of  any  account.     Notes,  just  fit  to  be  burned. 
I  wrote  him  that  I  could  not  send  him  back  his, 
If  I  never  have  mine.     Suppose,  therefore,  that  is 
The  end  of  the  matter — as  he  said,  in  fact, 
In  his  answer  which  I  received  Thursday.     And  that 


STOLEN  WATERS.  155 

It  was  his  intention  to  say  many  things, 

But  was  feeling,  that  day,  so  unwell,  could  not  bring 

His  mind  to  the  subject ;  that  also  must  be 

The  excuse  for  his  brevity. 

I  cannot  see 
What  ails  him,  I'm  sure !     There  is  something,  but  what, 
I  cannot  conceive.     I  am  certain  'tis  not 
Anything  Zhave  done.     He  is  fretting  about 
The  anonymous  letter — mamma's  finding  out 
About  our  correspondence — I  think  there's  no  doubt 
It  is  one  or  the  other,  or  something  that  I 
Yet  know  nothing  about.     In  his  answer  to  my 
Reply  to  this  letter,  he  writes — 

"  I  received 
Yours  this  morning,  and  I  can  but  say,  I  believe, 
That  nothing  at  all  you  have  said  angered  me, 
Though  I  did  hardly  fair,  indeed,  think  it,  to  be 
Compromised  by  your  making  acknowledgments  that 
I  was  your  correspondent ;  as  I  could,  in  fact, 
Not  see  the  necessity." 

I,  in  reply, 
Wrote,  I  thought  that  if  one  certain  lady,  whom  I 
Could  mention,  a  similar  question  of  him 
Had  asked,  that  mamma  did  of  me,  he  would,  in 
His  looks,  if  he  did  not  in  words,  the  whole  thing 
Have  acknowledged  as  well. 

In  the  same  he  again 
Writes — 

"  I  cannot  your  wish  understand,  that  as  friends 
We  should  part.     Surely  !  i"at  least  trust  there'll  be  naught 
But  the  most  kindly  feelings  between  us,  or  thoughts ; 


156  STOLEN  WATERS. 

As  I've,  I  assure  you,  no  others  to  you. 

His  letter  was  most  kind  and  pleasant  all  through, 

And  at  some  length  was  written.     He  says  near  the  end, 

"  I  cannot  tell  when  I  can  come  up,  my  friend, 

As  '  things  is  so  mixed  ;'  some  I  cannot  explain 

At  present,  and  had,  perhaps,  better  remain 

In  '  statu  quo.' " 

But  as  to  what  it  can  be, 
Of  course,  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea. 
That  was  written  on  Friday,  received  yesterday. 
He  sat  with  the  singers,  as  usual,  to-day, 
And  looked  very  handsome.     "Well !  I  believe  that 
Is  all,  and  I'm  too  tired  to  write  more,  in  fact. 


March  9th,  1864. 

WEDNESDAY. 

The  first  part  of  the  week  which  succeeded  my  last 
Record  here,  my  dear  Journal,  was  quietly  passed. 
Father  started  for  Boston  on  last  Thursday  eve 
To  bring  mamma  home  ;  but  when  ready  to  leave, 
I  could  not  go  downstairs  to  bid  him  good-by, 
So  completely  prostrate  with  a  headache  was  I. 
The  night  was  a  wretched  one,  and,  the  next  day, 
Though  better,  was  not  very  well,  I  must  say. 
My  brother's  wife  came  about  noon,  and  I  went 
Home  with  her,  after  I  had  first  written  and  sent 
A  note  to  my  friend  as  an  answer  to  one 
I  that  morning  received ;  and  I  wrote  he  could  come, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  157 

Or  not,  as  he  pleased — he  could  write  me  again, 

If  he  liked,  or  he  need  not — that  'twas  to  me,  then, 

A  matter  of  perfect  indifference ;  that 

If  he  suited  himself  I  was  suited.     In  fact, 

My  letter  was  not  cross  but  weary,  as  I 

Was  myself.     I  have  often,  of  late,  by  the  by, 

In  my  mind  had  a  poem  I  sometime  ago 

Was  reading — the  author  of  it  I  don't  know — 

Which  commenced,  "  We  are  so  tired,  my  poor  heart  and  1 1 " 

On  Sunday  A.M.  it  was  cloudy,  and  my 
Sister  made  every  effort  she  could  to  induce 
Me  not  to  go  home ;  but  'twas  not  any  use ; 
Go  I  would,  and  I  did,  and  was  very  glad,  too, 
That  I  had,  for  he  sat  in  the  front  nearly  through 
The  sermon,  and  then  in  the  corner ;  and  I 
Could  not  fail  to  perceive  the  soft  light  in  his  eye 
Bent  so  constantly  on  me.     And  I  could  almost 
Have  fancied  the  last  weeks  a  dream,  as  a  host 
Of  sweet  feelings  then  surged  through  my  heart.    I  went  home 
For  my  letters,  and  then  back  to  T. ;  and  I  own, 
Though  it  rained,  I  got  wet — as  I'd  taken  that  morn 
The  open  carriage — I  was  glad  I  had  gone, 
And  am  still. 

Brother  Frank  and  his  wife  went  last  night 
In  town  to  see  Forrest ;  and  so  I  was  quite 
Alone  with  the  children  and  servants.     I  read 
Moore  and  Shakspeare  'till  weary,  and  then  decided 
To  pencil  a  few  farewell  lines  to  my  "friend" 
But  wrote  rather  briefly,  it  being  late  then. 
I  came  home  to-day,  and  a  letter  received, 
Saying  mother  and  father  would  be  home  this  eve. 
They  came  about  six. 


158  STOLEN   WATERS. 

And  so  this  is  the  end ! 
The  flirtation  is  over,  and  we  are  again 
Merely  strangers  !     And  yet,  I  can  ne'er  feel  the  same  j 
Toward  him  that  I  did  before  it  we  began. 
And  I  feel  assured  also,  he,  too,  never  can 
Forget  it  or  me.     Looking  back  now,  it  seems, 
The  three  months  just  passed,  much  more  like  a  long  dream 
Than  it  does  reality.     It  was  to  me, 
Some  parts  of  it,  pleasant ;  yet  I  can  but  be 
Most  heartily  glad  it  is  over,  and  do 
Not  doubt  but  it  is  a  relief  to  him,  too. 
The  whole  correspondence  has  been,  in  some  things, 
The  most  mortifying,  humiliating, 
Of  any  I  ever  have  been  engaged  in. 
But  I  think  that  from  it  I  a  lesson  have  learned, 
And  if  a  few  leaves  of  the  past  could  be  turned, 
And  I  could  begin  it  again,  it  would  be 
On  my  part  conducted  quite  differently. 
The  truth  to  confess,  I  am  of  it  ashamed ! 
And  presume  many  times  I  have  thought  him  to  blame, 
When  I  have  been  mostly  in  fault.     We  have  not 
Each  other,  somehow,  understood.     I  have  thought 
Him  unkind,  many  times,  very  likely,  when  he 
Was  not  conscious  of  it,  nor  intended  to  be. 
But  he's  so  much  influence  had  over  me, 
And  I  could  not  indeed  wear  my  chains  gracefully, 
But  constantly  struggling  from  bonds  to  be  free, 
Have  wounded  myself  many  times,  I  can  see. 
Of  late,  I  have  fancied,  sometimes,  that  he  meant 
To  punish  me  for  keeping  him  in  suspense 
So  long  at  the  first.     If  that  was  his  intent, 
He  has  had  his  revenge  ! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  159 

And  so,  this  page  ends 
My  journal,  or  this  volume  of  it,  at  least. 
For  my  book  is  quite  filled,  and  thi&  day  must  complete 
The  record  of  so  many  unhappy  hours, 
And  a  few  most  exquisitely  happy  ones !     "  Flowers 
By  the  wayside  !  "    And  though  springing  up  among  thorns, 
Blooming  freshly  and  sweet,  amid  sunshine  or  storms. 
Some  time  a  new  journal  I  trust  to  begin ! 
May  it  be  much  more  peaceful  than  this  one  has  been. 
Farewell  to  this  volume,  to  days  bright  and  dreary ! 
"  Rest  is  sweet  after  strife ;  I  would  sleep  ;  I  am  weary !  " 


STOLEN    WATERS. 


PART    SECOND. 


"  He  tossed  me  bitterness,  and  called  it  sweet  I " 

J.  G.  Holland. 


"  What  was  love,  then  1  not  calm,  not  secure,  scarcely  kind  ; 
But  in  one,  all  intensest  emotion  combined  : 
Life  and  death :  pain  and  rapture :  the  infinite  sense 
Of  something  immortal,  unknown,  and  immense ! " 

Owen  Meredith. 


Stolen  Waters 


<MOOI> 


art    JSuonfc. 


NEW  YORK. 


April  24th,  1864. 


SUNDAY. 


To  my  new  Journal,  greeting  !     Once  more  I  resume 
Book  and  pen  with  my  own  wayward  heart  to  commune. 
I  seek,  once  again,  a  companionship  I 
Have  most  sadly  missed  in  the  weeks  now  gone  by, 
Since  turning  away  from  the  record,  which  had 
Been  both  bitter  and  sioeet,  and  both  joyous  and  sad, 
Closed  my  book  upon  the  irrevocable  past, 
And  bent  heart  and  will  to  the  yet  fruitless  task 
Of  learning  forgetfulness.     Lessons,  I  find, 
Which  no  force  of  will,  and  no  purpose  of  mind 
Can  make  me  achieve. 

"  The  grief  which  doth  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break  !  " 


164  STOLEN  WATERS. 

No  fountain  but  must  have  some  outlet !     No  heart 

But  must  have  some  vent,  or  but  longs  to  impart 

Its  sorrows  and  joys  unto  some  faithful  friend. 

So  to  you,  my  dear  Journal,  I  turn  once  again  ! 

None  more  faithful  than  you,  none  more  trusty  and  true  ; 

So  I'll  give  my  confidence  where  it  is  due, 

And  gathering  up  all  the  now  scattered  threads 

Of  my  life  and  my  heart,  will  bring  each  tiny  shred 

To  be  again  woven  by  your  silent  loom, 

Into  fabrics  and  colors  of  brightness  or  gloom. 

The  weeks  which  have  vanished  since  bidding  adieu 
To  my  Journal's  last  volume,  have  not,  it  is  true, 
Been  quite  uneventful !     And  neither  have  they 
Been  tranquil  or  happy.     Believing  the  way 
To  learn  to  forget  what  was  painful  and  sad, 
And  once  more  to  make  my  heart  buoyant  and  glad, 
"Was  within  it  to  give  to  remembrance  no  place, 
And  cease  in  these  pages  its  changes  to  trace, 
I've  kept  tightly  closed  its  escape- valves,  and  sealed 
Every  door  to  its  innermost  chambers — revealed^ 
To  none  the  emotion  which  almost,  at  times, 
Seemed  forcing  an  egress,  all  efforts  of  mine 
To  repress  but  indeed  more  rebellious  made  still, 
Till  my  heart  at  length  in  its  struggles  with  will 
Has  come  off  victorious,  and  given  to  grief 
A  vent — an  escape — and  in  writing,  relief. 

Well !  to-day  for  the  first  time  since  here  I  "wrote  last, 
I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  "  my  friend  "  of  the  past. 
All  these  dreary  weeks  to  a  sick-room  confined 
He  has  been,  and  I,  too,  in  a  tumult  of  mind 


STOLEN  WATERS.  165 

Indescribable  quite — first,  of  ignorance,  doubt, 
Then  knowledge,  anxiety,  have  been  about 
As  restless,  unhappy  as  I  could  well  be. 
And  in  the  meantime,  has  he  given  to  me, 
I  wonder,  one  thought  ?     Or  already  have  I 
Dropped  out  of  his  life  with  completeness,  no  sigh 
Of  regret  for  the  past,  for  the  future  no  hope ! 

The  six  weeks  to  me  have  passed  by  very  slow. 
For  nearly  a  month  he  had  been  ill,  before 
I  knew  what  detained  him  from  service.     Two  more 
Sabbaths  since  then  have  gone.    When  last  week  I  went  out 
"  She  "  was  there,  and  I  fancied  knew  something  about 
Our  acquaintance,  she  then  looked  so  queerly  at  me. 
I  presume  'twas  all  fancy,  though !     By  the  way,  he 
This  winter  is  wearing  an  overcoat  light, 
And  during  the  service  it  hangs  just  in  sight 
In  the  "  corner."     The  first  thing  I  noticed  to-day, 

When  I  went  in,  was  Mrs. ,  his  wife — and  away 

From  her  face  to  the  "  corner  "  I  glanced  ;  and  saw  there 
A  light  overcoat,- yet  even  then  did  not  dare 
Hardly  think  it  was  his,  fearing  still  I  should  be 
Disappointed.     But  when  they  began  to  sing,  he 
Stood  before  me  as  handsome  as  ever,  although 
Looking  so  pale  and  thin ;  and  a  glad  light,  I  know, 
Filled  my  eyes,  as  I  could  not,  indeed,  fail  to  see 
That  when  he  came  out  his  first  glance  was  for  me. 
How  happy  it  made  me  to  see  him  again ! 
And  so,  my  dear  Journal,  you  see  that  his  chain 
Is  still  round  my  neck,  and  the  clasp  he  yet  holds, 
But  chains  always  chafe,  although  made  of  fine  gold. 


166  STOLEN  WATERS.' 

May  1st,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Again  I'm  in  much  tribulation !     This  week 
Father  changes  his  business  to  Brooklyn.     He  speaks 
As  if  we  should  stay  where  we  are  until  fall, 
But  expect  when  he  gets  there  he'll  soon  want  us  all. 
And  how  can  I  think  of  it  ?     How  can  I  go 
And  leave  him,  "  my  own?  "    I  shall  never,  I  know, 
Never  see  him  at  all  ! 

I  to  church  went  to-day ; 
He  was  there,  and  I  was  very  glad,  I  must  say, 
To  see  he  was  looking  much  better — quite  like 
His  dear  self.     No  service,  but  concert  to-night. 


May  8th,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Well !  this,  I  suppose,  is  my  last  Sunday  here  ! 
For  the  last  time,  my  Journal,  I  come  to  this  dear 
Little  sanctum  of  mine  for  a  Sabbath  night's  chat, 
Of  which  we  so  many  before  have  had,  that 
I  scarcely  can  force  myself  now  to  believe 
That  this  is  the  last !     That  this  week  I  shall  leave 
This  house  in  which  so  many  hours  I  have  passed, 
So  happy  and  joyous  I  knew  they'd  not  last ; 
Hours  of  sadness,  as  well,  which  could  not  fly  too  fast. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  167 

That  I  must  bid  adieu  to  this  dear  little  room, 

With  associations  of  both  sunshine  and  gloom 

So  brimful;  where  so  many  castles  I've  built. 

Some  have  melted  in  air,  some  have  been  all  fulfilled  ! 

My  last  Sabbath  here  has  as  usual  been  spent, 

And  is  now  nearly  ended.     This  morning  I  went 

To  church,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  dark 

Overcoat,  which  was  hung  in  the  "  corner."     My  heart 

Sank  sev'ral  degrees.     Soon  the  bass-singer  came 

To  the  front  with  a  gentleman  ;   both  I  saw  plain, 

And  thought,  "  Well !  it  seems  we  are  having  this  morn 

A  new  tenor,  or  organist !  "     And,  although  down 

At  my  seat  he  kept  constantly  glancing,  while  he 

Stood  talking,  I  never  once  thought  it  could  be 

My  Antony  dearest !   and  not  until  they 

Were  commencing  to  sing  did  I  know  him.     The  way 

Of  it  was,  since  the  last  Sabbath  he's  taken  off 

His  beard,  leaving  only  his  mustache,  so  soft 

And  drooping.     It  made  in  his  looks  such  a  change, 

So  distinct  and  decided,  'twas  not  very  strange 

That  I  did  not  know  him,  e'en  though  his  dear  face 

Is  so  sweetly  familiar,  and  in  it  I've  traced 

Each  passing  emotion  so  many  a  time. 

He  looks  younger  and  handsomer  ;  yet,  Journal  mine, 

I  must  own  that  I  do  scarcely  like  him  so  well ; 

It  makes  him  seem  almost  a  stranger ;  the  spell 

Of  his  presence  has  something  of  newness  in  it, 

And  seemed  desecrating  the  past,  I  admit  ! 

We  intend  to  retain,  for  the  present,  our  pew. 

When  I  write  here  again,  I  suppose  in  my  new 

But  less  dearly  loved  home  I  shall  be.     So  adieu 

To  the  memory  of  hopes,  disappointed  ones  too, 


163  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Which  cluster  within  this  dear  room ;  and  a  last 
And  lingering  farewell  to  its  dreams  of  the  past 


! 


BROOKLYN. 


May  22d,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

r 

Two  weeks  since  my  last  writing !     In  my  new  home, 
In  my  new  "  sanctum  sanctorum,"  once  more  I  come 
To  trace  one  more  leaf  of  my  life  in  this  book. 
I  did  not  to  church  go  last  Sabbath ;  it  looked 
Like  a  storm,  and  I  was  not  quite  well.     But  to-day 
We  all  of  us  went,  and  I  thought  I  would  stay 
For  the  service  this  evening  ;  so  did  not  come  home ; 
With  a  friend  passed  the  interim.     Father  alone 
Came  over  this  evening.     My  friend  did  not  go 
To  church  to-night  with  me ;  my  Antony,  though, 
Was  there  morn  and  eve  ;  but  he  sat  in  his  pew, 
And  we  had  a  new  tenor ;  so  he  has  got  through 
With  the  choir,  I  conclude.     On  my  going  to-night 
To  service,  I  passed  by  his  house ;  'twas  twilight ; 
The  windows  were  open,  and  he  stood  near  one, 
Bending  over  a  table  with  his  oldest  son, 
Both  consulting  a  large  book  then  lying  thereon. 
I  know  not  if  he  saw  me  ;  but  had  not  been  long 
In  church,  when  I  saw  them  come  in ;  and  while  she 
Was  taking  her  seat,  my  friend  turned  towards  me 


STOLEN  WATERS.  169 

His  dear  face,  with  a  smile  most  impassioned  and  sweet ; 

And  my  cheek  slightly  flushed,  and  my  foolish  heart  beat 

Just  the  least  trifle  faster,  I  own  ;  it  did  seem 

So  strange,  to  see  him  sit  downstairs  !     And  I  deem 

It  a  pleasant  coincidence  our  seats  should  be 

So  near  to  each  other.     Presume,  though,  that  he 

Will  not  be  at  church  half  the  time,  now  he  sings 

No  more  in  the  choir.     "  There  comes  ever  something 

Between  us  and  what  we  our  happiness  deem." 

I  shall  now  see  my  friend  only  rarely,  I  ween ! 


October  2d,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Four  wearisome  months  have  flown  tardily  past, 
Since  I  opened  this  book,  and  made  in  it  my  last 
Brief  record.     And  though  there  has,  in  the  mean  time, 
Been  events  of  slight  import  to  me  and  to  mine, 
I  have  not  been  desirous  of  writing  them  down  ; 
Had  no  wish  to  commune  with  a  heart  I  have  found 
More  rebellious,  and  more  uncontrollable  too, 
Then  I  care  to  acknowledge,  now,  even  to  you, 
My  Journal  and  confidante. 

All  summer  long 
We  have  had  visitors,  and  the  last  are  just  gone. 
My  father  went  out  West  some  three  months  ago, 
Returning  last  week.     As  for  me,  you  must  know 
I've  been  doing  my  best  to  attempt  to  forget 
Scenes  and  friends  of  the  past,  but  whose  influence  yet 
8 


1 70  STOLEN  WA  TER8. 

Is  felt  in  my  heart.     And  my  efforts  have  been 

Of  but  little  avail ;  and  now,  down  deep  within 

My  heart,  I  am  forced  to  acknowledge  a  fact 

I  was  loDg  in  discovering ;  one,  also,  that 

I  would  now  fain  ignore ;  and  a  truth,  that  to  me 

Is  so  full  of  bitterness,  grief,  misery, 

And  humiliation,  it  does  seem,  at  times, 

As  if  I  could  hardly  endure  it.     How  blind 

I  have  been !  but  my  eyes  are  wide  open  at  last ; 

And  I  now  know,  and  bitterly  know,  why  the  past 

Is  yet  so  indelibly  stamped  on  my  heart ; 

Why  I  find  it  impossible,  even  a  part 

Of  a  certain  three  months  to  forget ;  and  wherein 

Lies  the  charm  which  has  bound  me  so  strongly  to  him ; 

Why  I  never  could  break  the  enchantment,  and  feel 

That  I  once  more  was  free.     No !  I  cannot  conceal 

From  myself  any  longer,  the  fact  that  the  thrall 

That  for  months  has  enslaved  me  is  this :  That,  with  all 

The  intenseness  and  depth  of  my  nature,  I  love 

Jlim,  my  Antony  dearest !     And  that  far  above 

All  others  he  stands  in  my  heart ;  and  that  no 

Separation,  or  silence,  or  coolness,  although 

It  might  make  me  both  grieved  and  indignant,  could  change, 

Or  serve  in  the  slightest  degree  to  estrange 

My  affection  for  him.     I  may  not  ever  see 

Him  again,  unless  'tis  at  a  distance,  and  he 

May  not  even  one  tender  thought  give  to  me; 

But  yet  he's  my  love,  and  my  darling,  my  own ! 

And  happiness,  freedom,  and  peace,  have  all  flown 

From  my  heart,  to  make  room  for  the  unwelcome  guest 

Which  I  fain  would  exclude.     For,  it  must  be  confessed, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  171 

The  knowledge  is  not  very  grateful  and  sweet, 

Nor  does  it  afford  to  me  happiness  deep. 

Can  it  be,  though,  that  7",  independent  and  proud, 

I,  who,  more  than  once,  scornfully  have  avowed 

I  could  think  naught  of  one  who  did  not  care  for  me, 

And  imagined  that  I  was  "  heart-whole,  fancy-free  " — 

jTam  forced  to  confess,  that  not  only  unsought, 

Unreturned,  I  have  loved,  but — the  most  bitter  thought 

Of  all  others,  where  none  with  much  sweetness  are  fraught — ■ 

I  have  in  my  heart  shrined  the  face  of  a  man 

Who  is  bound  to  another,  and  who  never  can 

Anything  be  to  me.     God  forgive  me,  I  pray, 

And  pity  me,  too  ! 

In  the  weeks  passed  away 
Since  herein  I  wrote  last,  I've  a  new  method  tried 
To  make  me  forget.     A  flirtation,  that  vied 
With  the  last  one  in  nothing  ;  and  was,  on  my  side, 
Carried  on  with  such  weary  indifference,  it 
Could  me  not  much  pleasure  afford,  I  admit. 
I  hoped  to  forget,  in  another's  fond  smile, 
One  whose  sweetness  had  done,  oh  !  so  much  to  beguile 
My  heart  from  its  peace.     But  the  man  was  not  one 
I  could  ever  care  much  for  !  and  now  it  is  done — 
The  flirtation — and  all  there  is  left  is  a  few 
Fond  letters,  well-written  and  kind,  it  is  true, 
And  a  photograph.     With  not  a  thought  of  regret, 
I  have  laid  them  away. 

Many  letters  I  yet 
From  Colonel  Allair  am  receiving.     He  writes 
Notes  most  pleasing  and  fine  ;  and  he  says  he  is  quite 
Captivated  by  our  cori-espondence  ;  and  ne'er 
Will  foi-get  me,  he  knows !     Well !  perhaps  not ;  if  e'er 


172  STOLEN   WATERS. 

He  is  tried,  we  shall  see!     But  we  always  agree, 

Never  jar  in  the  least.     Says  he  hopes  to  see  me 

Before  very  long,  as  his  time  has  expired, 

And  he'll  now  soon  be  home.     I  can't  say  I've  desired 

To  see  him  this  fall  very  much,  and  presume 

He  will  alter  his  mind  about  coming  so  soon 

"When  he  my  next  letter  receives. 

I  have  been 
To  church  frequently,  but  have  rarely  seen  him. 
One  morn,  I  remember,  when  going  up  town, 
I  saw  him  on  a  car  that  passed  by,  coming  down. 
How  glad  just  that  one  passing  glimpse  made  me  feel! 
Though  a  slight  tinge  of  sadness  began  soon  to  steal 
O'er  my  heart,  as  the  old  potent  charm  was  revived, 
Bringing  with  it  vain  longings  for  what  was  denied. 
I  felt  all  the  morn,  I  perhaps  should  see  him, 
But  hoped  that  to  church  my  dear  friend  would  have  been. 
I  went  up  to-day.     He  was  there  ;  neither  gave 
To  the  other  much  notice  ;  in  fact  nothing,  save 
An  occasional  most  careless  glance.     And  he  went 
Out  of  church  just  ahead  of  me,  talking  intent 
With  a  gentleman  friend.     Afterwards,  I  passed  by 
Him  so  closely,  my  dress  must  have  brushed  him ;  but  I 
Neither  spoke,  nor  yet  looked,  just  as  if  he  was  not 
My  Antony  dearest !  and  in  all  my  thoughts. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  173 


October  30th,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Was  in  town  yesterday,  and  went  into  his  store. 
I  have  not  for  a  long  time  been  in  there  before. 
I  did  not  inquire  for  him,  purchased  a  book, 
And  while  I  was  doing  so  he  came  to  look 
For  something  near  where  I  was  standing,  and  asked 
His  partner  some  question  about  it,  then  passed 
Back,  returning  a  moment  thereafter,  and  stood 
By  the  counter,  where  when  I  should  pass  out  I  could 
But  see  him.     I  sometimes  have  thought  that  he  would 
Ne'er  again  speak  to  me  ;  I  have  so'  many  times 
Decidedly  cut  him ;  but  he  was  as  kind, 
Yesterday,  in  his  manner  as  ever ;  and  I 
Of  course  bowed  and  smiled  too,  as  him  I  passed  by. 
But  though  I  was  outwardly  calm  and  serene, 
I  trembled  excessively  ;  but  did  not  mean 
He  should  know  I  was  moved ;  neither  did  he,  I  ween. 

"Were  to-day  both  at  church.     He,  my  dearest,  and  I ! 
And  his  eye  met  my  own  more  than  once.     By  the  by, 
I  think  he  still  likes  his  quondam  "  Bitter-Sweet," 
Just  a  little,  and  no  one  with  him  can  compete 
In  my  heart,  no  person  at  least  that  I've  met, 
Though  I  may  see  some  one  that  I  like  better,  yet. 


174  STOLEN  WATERS.' 

November  19^,  1864. 

SATURDAY. 

Been  to  church  only  once  since  the  last  time  I  wrote, 
And  naught  has  occurred  that  is  worthy  of  note. 
That  day  I  remained  all  the  noon  time  in  church. 
Went  up  in  the  choir  for  the  first  time,  in  search 
Of  traces  of  him ;  but  found  nothing ;  but  sat 
For  a  moment  within  the  dear  "  corner ;"  in  fact, 
In  £he  very  same  spot  where  my  friend  used  to  sit, 
But  one  brief  year  ago  ;  and  from  it  to  transmit 
Many  thoughts,  looks,  and  smiles  down  to  me. 

Do  you  know, 
My  dear  Journal,  that  it  was  just  one  year  ago 
Yesterday  that  I  sent  my  first  letter  to  him  ? 
How  brimful  of  sweet  recollections  they've  been-1— 
The  two  days  just  passed.    I  wrote  him,  by  the  way, 
A  note  to  remind  him  of  it,  and  to-day 
Was  in  town,  and  went  into  his  place,  but  did  not 
Have  a  chance  to  deliver,  without  doing  what 
T  disliked  very  much — to  inquire  for  him  ;  so 
I  purchased  a  book,  went  where  else  I'd  to  go, 
And  returned,  and  accomplished  my  object  that  time. 
How  handsome  he  looked  !  and  how  pleasant  and  kind 
Was  his  smile  and  his  tone,  as  he  took  from  my  hand 
The  parcel  I  gave.     He  is  splendid,  and  grand ! 
My  letter  ran  nearly  like  this  : 

" My  dear  '  John'' I 

"  Don't  it  look  to  you  singular,  some- 
what, that  form 


STOLEN  WATERS.  175 

Of  address  at  the  head  of  a  letter  of  mine  ? 
For  though  I  have  written  the  same  many  times, 
To  you  before,  never !   I  write  to  you  now, 
Not  thinking  you'll  care  much  to  hear,  I'll  allow, 
But  because  I  just  now  know  not  what  else  to  do, 
And  because  I  feel,  too,  just  like  writing  to  you. 
I  have  not  forgotten  how  wrong  it  is,  though, 
I  wish  that  I  could !   But  I  ask  you  for  no 
Reply,  and  write  only  because  to  me  'tis 
A  gratification. 

"  Do  you  know  it  is 
Just  one  year  to-day,  since  my  first  note  to  you 
I  wrote  and  despatched  ?    It  does  seem,  it  is  true, 
Hardly  possible,  but  so  it  is !      Ah,  my  dear, 
This  cold,  wintry  weather,  so  frosty  and  clear, 
Brings  back  very  forcibly  old  times  to  me. 
Does  it  to  you  also,  my  own  '  Antony  ?  ' 
And  do  you  ever  think,  I  would  much  like  to  know, 
Of  this  time,  but  one  little,  brief  year  ago  ? 
A  smile  quite  involuntary  sometimes  says 
You  have  not  entirely  forgotten  *  B.  S  !' 
As  to  me,  I  like  you  just  as  well  now  as  then  ; 
I  liked  you  the  first  time  I  saw  yovi,  and  when 
Our  brief  cori'espondence  was  closed,  you,  my  friend, 
Were  not  the  less  dear ;  and  I  like  you,  too,  still, 
Although  inconsiderate,  unkind,  you  will 
Admit  that  you  often  have  been — will  you  not  ? 
I  remember  of  your  saying,  once,  that  you  thought 
There  was,  'tween  the  sexes,  no  such  thing  as  love ! 
That  'twas  mostly  mere  passion — or  that  was  above 
Pure  affection  predominant.     I  don't  believe 
You  really  thought  so ;  nor  did  you  conceive, 


176  STOLEN  WATERS. 

My  dear  '  John,''  how  conclusively  that  remark  proved, 

Though  sixteen  years  married,  you  never  have  loved. 

If  this  is  your  opinion,  I  differ  with  you  ! 

For  I — shall  I  say  '  love '  f  yes  !  for  it  is  true, 

That  it,  in  this  case,  means  no  more  than  I  like, 

And  I  think  it  is,  too,  somewhat  easier  to  write — 

Yes,  love  you  !   but  not  with  one  passionate  thought. 

Am  contented  to  see  you,  and,  though  I  would  not 

Be  sorry  to  have  an  occasional  chat 

With  you,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  well  aware  that 

I  have  to  your  love  and  caresses  no  right. 

Nor  do  I  care  for  them.     It  is  to  me  quite 

Immaterial  whether  you  like  me  or  no  ; 

If  you  treat  me  unkindly  or  kindly;  and  so, 

You  see,  nor  your  smiles  nor  your  frowns  can  disturb 

My  calm  equanimity  ;  neither  can  curb 

Or  enhance  the  full  flow  of  my  spirits. 

"  I  thought 
I  saw  you  a  few  days  ago,  but  was  not 
Quite  certain  of  it— on  Broadway,  I  believe. 
Trusting  you  will  with  pleasure  this  letter  receive, 
And  sending  you  love  and  a  kiss,  'till  we  meet, 
I  am  still  and  am  only, 

"  Your  own, 

"  Bitter-Sweet." 


STOLEN  WATERS.  177 


December  11$,   1864. 

SUNDAY. 

December !  and  almost  the  middle  again  ! 
Can  it  be  that  a  whole  year  has  flown  by  since  when 
I,  with  trembling  delight,  received  letters  from  him 
Who  is  still  more  to  me  than  all  others  have  been  ? 
This  fatal  and  singular  passion  !  will  it 
Be  never  quite  conquered  ?     And  must  I  admit 
That  my  heart  beats  in  fetters  I'm  powerless  to  break  ? 

A  heavy  snow-storm,  yesterday,  could  but  make 
It  impossible  I  should  go  up  town  to-day. 
I  wonder  if  he  was  at  church,  by  the  way, 
If  my  seat  looked  forsaken,  and  if  my  friend  wished 
That  I  had  been  there,  or  my  presence  once  missed. 


December  \%th}  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

To-day  was  a  beautiful  one !   and  I  went 
To  the  old  church  this  morning  ;  and  he,  my  dear  friend, 
"Was  there,  and  alone.     In  fact,  "  she  "  has  not  been 
For  some  time  at  service.     I  could  not  see  him 
As  he  sat  at  the  first,  but  then  some  one  came  in, 
And  he  moved  to  the  end  of  the  pew.     I  would  liked 
To  have  been  one  seat  back.     Thought  I  noticed  him  write 
8* 


178  STOLEN  WATERS. 

During  prayer,  but  I  might  been  mistaken.     He  came 
Across  after  service,  and  passed  down  the  same 
Aisle  with  me,  and  directly  behind  me,  in  fact, 
And  with  our  soprano  conversing ;  and  that, 
Of  course,  made  me  jealous.     Her  husband,  although, 
Was  with  her.     And  what  he  was  writing,  also, 
For  her  might  have  been,  or  it  might  been  for  me, 
And  no  chance  to  give  it  he  had.     Indeed,  he 
Might  not  written  at  all.     I  distinctly  could  hear, 
As  we  came  out,  the  tones  of  his  voice,  of  that  dear, 
Perfect  voice,  which  I've  heard  very  little  of  late  ! 
Those  musical,  fine,  tenor  tones !  which  vibrate 
On  my  ear  ever  sweetly.     To-day  I  could  see 
He -was  some  agitated  ;  perhaps  it  might  be 
From  his  then  close  proximity — was  it  ? — to  me  ? 
Or  caused  by  the  woman  with  whom  he  conversed  ? 
I  dislike  her  !     Was  jealous  of  her  from  the  first. 

We've  a  houseful  of  visitors  ;  have,  in  fact,  had, 
With  but  shoi-t  intervals,  since  July.     I'll  be  glad 
When  we're  once  more  alone  ;  for  I  am  all  the  time 
So  vinhappy,  or  blue,  or  despondent,  I  find 
It  an  unceasing  strain  on  my  heart  and  my  mind, 
And  my  nerves,  and  my  temper,  to  be  with  my  friends 
Even  decently  sociable.     What  wonder,  then, 
That  visitors  bore  me,  and  that  I  would  fain 
They  were  gone,  that  we  might  become  quiet  again  ! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  179 


December  25th,  1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Christmas  greeting  to  you,  my  dear  Journal,  once  more ! 
Went  up  town  last  evening,  and  called  at  the  store 
On  my  way,  and  saw  him,  too,  my  dearest !    Did  not 
Have  a  chance,  though,  for  speaking.     Did  he  give  a  thought, 
I  wonder,  to  one  year  ago,  or  to  me  ? 
In  the  chapel  last  eve  was  a  concert  and  "  tree ;  " 
I  went,  and  remained  with  a  friend  for  the  night. 
Went  to  service  to-day,  and  I  was  surprised,  quite 

To  see  Mrs. ,  his  wife,  was  there  also,  with  him, 

Looking  fair,  and  as  fresh,  too,  as  ever.     Had  been 

A  long  time  since  I'd  seen  her  before.     We'd  to-day 

A  fine  Christmas  sermon,  indeed,  I  must  say. 

This  p.m.  went  to  Sabbath-school,  then  returned  home. 

On  my  way  to  the  car  passed  his  house :  and  I  own, 

What  I  saw  there  both  pleased  and  surprised  me  some,  too  ! 

Sitting  back  from  the  window,  and  yet  in  plain  view, 

Was  my  Antony  dearest !  and  close  in  his  arms 

A  bundle  of  cambric,  and  soft  flannel  warm. 

Containing  a  baby,  I  could  but  suppose, 

Sleeping  sweetly,  an  infant's  undreaming  repose, 

In  arms  that  would  fain  shield  from  all  earthly  woes, 

That  tiny,  frail  blossom.     I  think  I  could  sleep, 

Held  within  such  a  clasp,  a  sleep  dreamless  and  deep — • 

Sleep  forever !   and  never  again  wake  to  weep. 

"  'Twere  delicious  to  die,  if  my  heart  might  grow  cold 

While  his  arms  wrapped  me  round  in  that  passionate  fold." 


180  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  is  what  I  had  never  expected  to  see — 
A  baby  in  his  arms,  "  my  own  Antony." 

One  thing  somewhat  vexes  me  :  I've  sometimes  thought 
Of  late — though  perhaps  it  is  fancy — from  what 
I  have  noticed  at  church,  that  not  only  his  friend 
Mr.  F.,  but  his  wife,  from  beginning  to  end, 
Knows  about  our  acquaintance.     And  yet,  I  can't  think 
He  could  make  a  jest  of  it !     Feel  he  would  shrink 
From  aught  so  unworthy ;  yet,  think  I  will  write 
And  give  him  a  chance  for  defence,  if  he  likes, 
Not  condemn  him  unheard,  which  would  hardly  be  right. 


December  3\st,  1864. 

SATURDAY. 

ft 

Last  Tuesday  our  visitors  all  went  away, 
And  I  wrote  a  letter,  I  think,  the  same  day, 
To  my  Antony,  as  in  my  last  record  here 
I  thought  I  should  do.     Stated  first,  full  and  clear, 
My  suspicions,  and  grounds  for  the  same ;  the  effect 
Such  thoughts  could  but  have  on  my  mind,  hoping  yet 
I  might  be  mistaken.     Would  be  but  too  glad 
Could  he  prove  to  the  contrary ;  and  if  he  had 
Any  wish  to  himself  exculpate,  or  had  aught 
To  say  on  the  subject,  I'd  meet  him,  I  thought, 
Between  one  and  three  on  the  next  afternoon, 
If  he  chose  to  go  up,  at  the  L.'s  reading-room. 
The  next  day  was  stormy,  but  in  the  p.m. 
Looked  a  little  like  clearing,  so  started ;  but  when 


STOLEN  WATERS.  181 

I  had  walked  a  few  blocks  it  was  raining  again. 

For  a  car  I  then  waited  a  long  time  in  vain, 

So  walked  to  the  ferry.     I  caught  one  at  last, 

On  the  other  side,  tho' ;  'twas  a  few  minutes  past 

Three  o'clock  when  I  reached  the  Library ;  and  he 

Was  not,  of  course,  there  at  that  hour.     As  for  me, 

Though  I  would  have  braved  anything  to  have  gone — 

Did  brave  fearful  travelling,  a  severe  storm — 

Yet  regretted  my  folly  when  it  was  too  late ; 

Came  home  with  the  world  out  of  humor,  with  fate 

And  myself  in  particular ;  and  in  a  state 

Of  discomfort  in  body,  as  well,  being  both 

Cold  and  wet.     Though  I  saw  him  not,  still  I  am  loth, 

Even  yet,  to  believe  my  own  chai-ges.     I  could 

Not  love  him  at  all,  I  am  sure,  if  I  should. 

Many  things  might  prevented  his  keeping  that  day 

The  appointment  I  made.     And  indeed,  though,  he  may 

Have  been  there  and  gone ;  or  my  letter  might  not 

Have  reached  him  in  time ;  or  else  he  may  have  thought 

That  it  was  so  stormy,  I  would  not  be  there. 

I'll  give  him  one  more  chance. 

I  hope  'twill  be  fair 
To-morrow,  for  I  very  much  wish  to  go 
Up  to  church  in  the  morning ;  but  all  day  the  snow 
Has  fallen  unceasingly  ;  so  I  shall  be 
Obliged  to  stay  home,  very  likely,  I  see. 

To-day  is  the  last  of  this  changeable  year ! 
So  filled  with  both  sorrow  and  joy,  hope  and  fear. 
The  last  hours  are  speeding  !     All  day  I  have  thought 
Of  one  year  ago — of  those  hours  that  were  fraught 
With  so  much  of  gladness  to  me  !     Of  that  day, 
The  happiest  ever  I  spent,  I  must  say. 


182  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  shall  never  forget  it !     I  wonder  if  he 
Remembers  it,  too — if  he  but  cared  for  me 
Only  j  ust  half  as  much  as  I  do  about  him ! 
And,  indeed,  how  do  I  know,  but  down  deep  within 
The  most  sacred  room  in  his  heart,  there  is  traced 
My  name,  and  in  letters  which  naught  can  efface  ? 
He  is  not  demonstrative,  and  it  may  be 
I  am  more  to  him,  even,  than  he  is  to  me. 
Farewell  to  the  year  "  sixty-four,"  so  replete 
With  associations  both  bitter  and  sweet ! 


January  2d,  1865. 

MONDAY. 

It  "  made  believe  "  storm  all  the  day  yesterday, 
And  there  were  no  paths  ;  consequently,  away 
From  church  I  of  course  was  obliged  to  remain ; 
So   my  "  New  Year's  Day "    this   year,  both  opened   and 

waned, 
Without  having  been  noted  by  any  event 
Of  import ;  and  so  did  the  last,  yet  I've  spent 
Few  days  that  were  more  fully  happy  than  that. 
And  neither  was  this  quite  unhappy,  in  fact. 
And  to-day  has  been  jubulant !     For,  this  a.m., 
The  carrier  came  here  with  letters ;  and  when 
He  had  given  me  two,  he  then  said,  "  Let  me  see 
If  1  have  not  another  for  you  !  "  and  then  he 
Passed  me  one,  too,  from — him,  my  own  darling !  and  I 
Could  not  tell  you,  my  Journal,  e'en  tho'  I  should  try, 
How  surprised  and  how  pleased  I  was,  too,  to  once  more 
Have  a  letter  in  his  well-known  hand,  as  of  yore. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  183 

It  was  both  short  and  cold  ;  but  a  very  few  lines ; 

Yet  more  precious  to  this  wayward,  fond  heart  of  mine, 

Than  words  of  the  most  ardent  love  from  another. 

'Twas  addressed  my  whole  name  ;  and  on  each  of  the  others 

He  has  my  initials  used  only,  and  I 

Did  not  know  that  he  knew  what  it  was. 

By  the  by, 
I  ought  to  have  had  it  on  Saturday.     States 
lleceived  mine  on  Thursday ;  adds,  "  one  day  too  late." 
Said— 

"  You  do  me,  indeed,  gross  injustice  !     I'm  no 
Such  person.     Should  written  you  some  time  ago, 
But  did  not  know  where  to  address,  and  do  not 
Hai-dly  think  this  will  reach  you." 

I  never  had  thought 
Of  his  writing,  and  so,  did  not  send  my  address. 
That  was  all  that  he  wrote.     There  was  not,  I  confess, 
In  that,  aught  to  go  into  ecstasies  o'er ; 
Yet,  coming  from  him,  it  has  given  me  more 
Of  pleasure  and  gladness  than  aught  else  could  do ; 
And  has  rendered  my  New  Year  most  happy,  'tis  true. 
I  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  him  a  reply, 
Both  loving  and  long;  looked  it  o'er — laid  it  by, 
And  taking  a  fresh  sheet,  another  one  wrote, 
As  brief  and  as  cold  as  his  own  icy  note. 
There  was  a  great  contrast  the  letters  between  ! 
One  the  heart  had  dictated,  from  th'  wealth  and  the  sheen 
Of  its  jubilant  love  ;  and  the  other  was  traced 
By  a  hand  which  was  guided  alone  by  strait-laced 
Decorum,  and  cold,  worldly  pride  ;  and  the  one 
Which  I  sent  was  the  last. 

One  more  day  is  now  done, 
And  auspiciously  one  more  New  Year  has  begun ! 


184  STOLEN   WATERS. 

January  15£A,  1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I  made  an  appointment  for  Tuesday,  P.M., 
But  it  rained  hard  all  day  ;  consequently  again 
It  was  missed.     Yesterday  I'd  a  letter,  although, 
Saying  any  p.m.  of  next  week  he  would  go 
To  the  L.  to  meet  me. 

To-day  the  wind  blew  - 
Exceedingly  hard,  and  'twas  "  bitter  cold,"  too  ; 
But  I  went  up  to  church.     I'd  forgotten  to  say 
That  a  steward  to  me  came,  I  think  the  last  day 
I  was  up  there,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  object 
To  sitting  one  seat  farther  back;  he  could  let 
Our  pew  to  advantage,  and  thought  as  'twas  rare 
For  any  of  us,  but  myself,  to  be  there, 
That  we  did  not  care  the  whole  seat  to  retain, 
And  that  I'd  very  probably  not  mind  the  change. 
And  did  I  ?     Well !  not  very  much,  I  admit, 
And  certainly  made  no  objection  to  it. 
For,  of  course,  if  I  sat  just  one  pew  farther  back, 
I  should  then  be  directly  opposite  that 
Occupied  by  my  Antony  dearest.     If  we 
Both  should  at  the  inner  end  sit,  there  would  be 
But  a  thin,  low  partition  between  us.     This  morn, 
I  did  not  know  what  was  decided  upon, 
So  took  my  old  place.     The  new  occupants,  though, 
Were  there.     This  p.m.  there  was  service,  also, 
To  the  mem'ry  of  one  of  our  fallen  heroes. 
They  were  there,  too,  and  thought  it  quite  strange,  I  sup- 
pose, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  185. 

To  notice  the  change ;  or,  at  least,  she  stared  some 

When  I  took  my  new  seat.     The  number  of  one 

Of  the  first  hymns,  she  failing  to  catch,  at  once  looked 

At  him,  but  his  eyes  were  then  bent  on  his  book ; 

With  a  gesture  just  slightly  impatient  she  then 

Turned  to  me,  so  I  passed  her  my  hymn-book,  and  when 

She  returned  it,  of  course  bowed  and  smiled  pleasantly ; 

We  were  both  in  the  corner,  and  so  could  but  be 

Very  near  to  each  other.     How  little  she  knew 

Of  the  ties  indissoluble  binding  us  two ! 

That  she  was  the  one  only  barrier  between 

Him  and  me,  in  .more  senses  than  one,  too,  I  ween ! 

For  as  she  sat  between  us  at  service  to-day, 

So  in  all  things  she  parts  us,  both  now  and  alway. 


January  27th,  1865. 

FRIDAY. 

Last  week  an  appointment  for  Thursday  I  made, 
And  again  were  frustrated  my  plans,  so  well  laid. 
One  of  the  L.'s  patrons  is  recently  dead, 
And  I  in  the  paper  on  Wednesday  eve  read 
That  the  L.  would  be  closed  on  the  following  day. 
I  was  much  disappointed  and  vexed,  I  must  say. 
But  I  not  being  able  to  help  it,  was  forced 
To  make  the  best  of  it ;  supposing,  of  course, 
That  he  would  have  seen  the  same  notice,  also, 
That  morning  at  latest,  and  so  would  not  go. 
But  lest  he  should  not  have,  I  wrote  him  again, 


186  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Saying  why  I  that  day  should  not  come  in,  and  then 

Making  one  more  appointment  for  Tuesday  p.m. 

There  seems  on  our  meeting  to  be  a  spell  set ! 

But  all  obstacles  only  make  stronger  yet 

My  will  and  desire  him  to  see.     It  has  been, 

Oh,  such  a  long  time  since  I've  spoken  with  him, 

Since  my  hand  with  fond  pressure  has  been  clasped  in  his ! 

Almost  a  whole,  long,  weary  year.     Yet  he  is 

My  love,  and  my  dearest !  and  what  wonder,  then, 

I  desire  with  insatiable  longing  again 

To  stand  face  to  face,  hand  to  hand,  with  the  man 

Who  to  me  is  so  much  ;  and  that  also  I  am 

Quite  ready  to  sacrifice  any  amount 

Of  pride  to  accomplish  my  wish  ;  and  would  count 

It  all  nothing,  compared  to  an  hour's  chat  with  him? 

And  thus  far,  in  fact,  our  acquaintance  has  been 

A  sacrifice  constant  of  pride  on  my  part. 

Pride  is  strong — strong  enough !  but  yet  love  in  my  heart 

Is  more  potent  still !  and  I've  found,  it  is  true, 

That  in  a  contest  'tween  the  sentiments  two, 

Love  always  is  conqueror ;  that  I'm  a  slave, 

And  each  effort  to  sunder  the  fetters,  which  chafe 

Me  so  sorely,  but  rivets  my  chains  stronger  yet, 

While  I  'neath  their  clankings  still  hopelessly  fret. 

When  Tuesday  arrived  I  in  town  went  once  more, 
And  stopped  on  my  way  to  the  L.  at  the  store. 
He  was  in ;  I  was  certain  he  saw  me,  though  I 
Did  not  speak  with  him.     Oh !  but  I  bought,  by  the  by, 
A  paper,  the  first  one  I  thought  of,  and  found 
When  carelessly  looking  its  columns  a-down, 
The  first  poem  he  sent  me,  "  You  Kissed  Me! "  was  in  it. 
I  went  to  the  L.  and  I  waited,  while  minute 


STOLEN  WATERS.  187 

By  minute  flew  on,  and  still  he  did  not  come. 

I  at  last  gave  him  up,  and  then  started  for  home. 

Vexed,  provoked  was  I  ?     No  ;  those  words  cannot  express 

Half  how  angry  I  was.     Far  more  so,  I  confess, 

Than  heretofore  ever  I  have  been  with  him. 

Feeling  certain  he  knew  very  well  I  was  in, 

And  that,  if  he  had  not  intended  to  go, 

Or  could  not,  he  might  at  the  least  have  said  so 

When  I  went  in  the  store,  why,  how  could  I  but  feel 

Very  angry,  indeed  ?     Neither  did  I  conceal 

How  incensed  I  then  was,  in  the  letter  I  sent. 

I  was  very  cross  with  him,  and  also  meant 

He  should  know  it. 

To-day,  I  received  a  reply. 
Though  its  contents  were  read  with  a  quite  tearless  eye, 
In  my  heart  was  such  sorrow  as  never  before 
It  has  known ;  for  I  felt  sure  that  now  was  all  o'er, 
And  strangers  we  were  to  become  evermore ! 
But  I  was  not  conscio\is  how  plainly  was  traced 
The  grief  and  despair  I  then  felt,  in  my  face, 
Till  a  friend  coming  in  had  expressed  much  concern, 
Being  sure  I  was  ill.     I  could  but  have  discerned 
From  his  note,  that  he  was,  indeed,  only  less  vexed 
Than  I  was  when  I  wrote.     Neither  was  I  perplexed, 
After  reading  his  letter,  the  reason  to  know, 
Nor  could  I  then  wonder  at  his  feeling  so. 
He  never  has  sent  me  one  cross  word  before ; 
And  I — well !   I've  written  to  him  many  more 
Cross  letters  than  kind  ones,  I'm  fearful ;  but  then, 
I  get  angry  one  minute,  the  next  pleased  again, 
While  a  person  not  easily  vexed  frequently 
Retains  their  displeasure  some  time.     And  so  he, 


188  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Having  once  got  provoked,  or  in  anger  at  me, 

Will  now  not  forgive  me,  I  fear,  readily. 

My  "  note  was  insulting,"  he  wrote,  and  I  could 

But  acknowledge  its  truth.     He  presumed  that  it  would 

Not  be  in  accordance  with  etiquette,  should 

He  a  lady's  word  doubt ;  and  that  therefore,  as  I 

Said  I  knew  that  he  saw  me,  be  had  in  reply 

Naught  to  say.     And  again,  both  appointments  he  kept ; 

The  first  time  he  found  the  L.  closed,  and  the  next 

No  one  there  that  he  knew  ;  and  as  he  the  last  two 

Had  kept,  so  he  should  not  the  next. 

What  to  do, 
I  at  first  hardly  knew.     But  then,  conscious  that  I 
Had  wronged  him,  I  could  do  no  less,  in  reply, 
Than  acknowledge  my  error,  and  thus  make  amends 
For  my  unjust,  intemperate  language,  and  send 
An  apology  too,  stipulating  that  he 
His  forgiveness  should  prove  by  bis  keeping  with  me 
The  appointment  which  I  should  make  next ;  so  I  wrote, 
And  he  will  to-morrow,  I  think,  have  my  note. 


February  7th,  1865. 


TUESDAY. 


Nothing  new  or  of  import,  since  here  I  wrote  last. 
Have  not  been  to  service  for  two  Sabbaths  past ; 
So  him  I  have  not  seen,  and  neither  have  I 
Received  any  letter  from  him,  in  reply 


STOLEN  WATERS.  189 

To  the  one  which  I  sent  more  than  one  week  ago. 

If  he  could  pass  that  by  unanswered,  I  know 

Not  what  he  is  made  of.     I  sent  this  p.m. 

A  very  cool  note,  and  appointing  again 

A  meeting  for  Thursday.     And  failure  this  time 

Will  crush  out  all  hope  from  this  poor  heart  of  mine ; 

Forced  to  yield  to  despair,  I  will  never  again 

Expect  aught  but  misery,  sorrow,  and  pain. 

"  He  tosses  me  bitterness,"  truly !     Must  I 

With  a  stone  be  contented  when  bread  is  so  nigh, 

Or  with  husks,  just  because  the  fruit's  hanging  so  high? 


February  9th,  1865. 

THURSDAY. 

Far  more  happy  to-night  than  my  words  can  portray, 
I  have  seated  myself,  the  events  of  to-day 
To  transcribe  in  my  book  ;  but  my  heart  is  so  light, 
So  jubilant,  joyful,  and  so  filled  with  bright, 
Sweet  thoughts,  hopes,  emotions,  I  scarce  can  compose 
Myself  to  write  calmly,  this  evening,  of  those 
Events  and  sweet  feelings. 

WeD,  j?"  need  not  say, 
I  presume,  my  dear  Journal,  what  rendered  this  day 
Such  a  glad  one  to  me  !     What  has  rolled  far  away 
The  lowering  clouds,  shown  the  bright  "  silver  lining," 
That  "behind  the  dark  cloud  is  the  sun  still  shining." 
And  that  ever  'tis  "  darkest  just  previous  to  dawn." 
What  else  could  have  turned  into  roseate  morn 


190  ,  STOLEN  WATERS. 

My  heart's  midnight,  except  that  to-day  I've  seen  him. 
And  that  he  is  still,  that  he  ever  has  been, 
My  dearest  dear  friend ! 

This  p.m.  T  went  in, 
And  at  the  Library  I  waited  for  him 
Until  three  o'clock,  when — he  came !  What  a  bound 
Of  delight  my  heart  gave,  as  my  darling  came  down 
The  long  room,  to  where  I  was  then  sitting !     How  bright 
Was  the  smile  on  his  lips,  and  how  sweet  the  soft  light 
In  his  eye,  and  how  pleasant  his  musical  tones, 
As  he  murmured  his  greeting,  and  pressed  in  his  own, 
With  warm  fondness,  the  hand  which  I  gave!     Then  he 

drew 
A  chair  close  to  mine,  and  sat  down.     And  I  knew, 
Without  farther  words,  that  my  love  was  "  still  true." 
What  a  nice  chat  we  had!  and  all,  too,  was  explained 
To  my  satisfaction,  'till  no  thought  remained 
In  my  heart  but  of  kindness  for  him ;  and  it  seems 
All  the  trouble  was  caused  by  his  "  prudence  "  extreme. 
He  likes  me  just  as  well  now  as  ever  before. 
And  I — well !  I  own  that  I  like  him  far  more 
Than  words  can  express  ! 

Oh !  the  reason  that  I 
To  my  penitent  letter  have  had  no  reply, 
Was  that  he  was  away,  so  it  was  not  received 
Until  his  return — I  think  yesterday  eve — 
When  he  found  it  awaiting  him,  also  my  last, 
Appointing  to-day's  interview.     So  we  passed 
An  hour  or  two  there  in  the  most  pleasant  chat ; 
And,  as  we  were  coming  away,  he  said  that 
If  Td  not  get  cross  any  more,  he  would  be 
A  good  boy  in  the  future.     He  also  asked  me, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  191 

Once  or  twice,  when  I  thought  I'd  be  in  town  again ; 
And  said,  too,  that  if  I  would  let  him  know  when 
He'd  try  and  come  up.     I  of  course  was  too  glad 
To  promise.     We  walked  to  my  car,  where  he  bade 
Me  good-by,  and  then  left  me. 

How  sweet  'tis,  once  more 
To  feel  we  are  friends!  all  unpleasantness  o'er, 
All  difference  reconciled !     What  wonder,  then, 
In  my  heart  smiles  and  sunshine  are  nestling  again  ? 


February  12  th,  1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I  have  nothing  to  write  of  since  Thursday,  except 
Our  sweet  reconcilement,  and  perfect,  has  kept 
My  heart  constantly  buoyant  and  glad.     Was  to-day 
Up  at  church,  though  it  snowed  when  I  started  away, 
And  was  bitterly  cold.     He  was  not  there  this  morn, 
And  I  thought  possibly  on  account  of  the  storm 
Misrht  not  be  this  afternoon  either.     Of  late 
We've  service  had  in  the  p.m.,  I  must  state, 
Instead  of  the  evening,  as  usual.     I'd  not 
Have  gone  up  to  church  this  cold  day,  but  I  thought 
I  would  much  like  to  know  if  my  friend  would  appear 
Any  different  now  than  before.     Well !  my  fears 
In  regard  to  his  absence  were  all  put  to"  flight 
When  I  saw  him  come  in.     We  were  both  of  us  quite 


192  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Alone  in  our  pews,  so  had  nothing  to  do 

But  look  at  each  other  ;  and  we  improved,  too, 

To  advantage,  the  rare  opportunity.     He 

Sent  such  loving  glances  and  smiles,  too,  to  me  ; 

Kept  constantly  turned  toward  me,  in  his  face 

The  same  look  which  I  used  to  see  there  in  the  days 

Long  gone  by.     And  it  did  seem  like  "  old  times,"  indeed, 

And  I  fancy  that  neither  of  us  gave  much  heed 

To  the  doubtless  fine  sermon;  at  least  _Z"did  not, 

And  believe  that  he,  also,  had  never  a  thought 

But  for  me.      My  own  darling  !     How  much  I  love  him. 

How  exquisitely  happy  this  Sabbath  has  been ! 

And  I  felt  fully  paid,  too,  for  going,  although 

The  weather  was  very  inclement.     I  know 

That  I  toward  him  can  feel  never  again 

As  I  have  recently — until  last  Thursday — when 

"  Old  things  passed  away,  and  all  things  became  new." 

By  the  way — and  quite  a  coincidence,  too, 

I  thought  it — -just  one  year  ago,  at  the  time 

We  to-day  sat  in  church,  at  the  same  hour,  in  fine, 

He  and  I  were  together  in  my  dear  old  home 

In  New  York,  for  the  last  time.     I  did  not,  I  own, 

Remember  it  then.     And  I  wish  I  had,  too  ! 

I  wrote  a  few 'words,  and  di-opped  into  his  pew 
The  paper  on  which  they  were  traced.     He  did  not 
Perceive  it,  although  and  therefore,  as  I  thought 
That  some  one  might  find  it  whom  I  would  not  care 
To  have  see  or  read  it,  I  told  him  'twas  there 
When  we  met  at  the  door,  and  he  went  back  for  it. 
I  of  course  could  not  wait  for  him ;  that,  I  admit, 
Would  have  been  hardly  "  prudent ;"  but  if  he  saw  fit 


STOLEN  WATERS.  193 

He  could  join  me.     But  Mr.  S.,  when  he  came  out, 

Took  his  arm  very  coolly,  walked  with  him  about 

Two  blocks,  and  then  left  him.     The  rest  of  the  way 

I  had  him  myself ;  and  although,  I  dare  say, 

It  was  highly  "  imprudent " — our  walking  together — 

'Twas  none  the  less  pleasant.     It  stormed,  and  the  weather 

Was  fearfully  cold,  yet  I  gave  it  no  thought ; 

His  presence  with  life,  warmth,  and  sunshine  was  fraught. 


February  23rf,  1865. 

THURSDAY. 

Nearly  two  pleasant  weeks  have  now  glided  away 
Since  my  last  record  here.     I  had  made  for  to-day 
An  appointment.     'Twas  cloudy,  and  so,  hardly  knew 
About  going  in,  what  'twas  best  I  should  do. 
At  length  I  decided  I  would  ;  and  was  glad 
Afterward  that  I  did  so.     A  book,  that  I  had 
Been  wishing  to  purchase,  I  ordered  through  him. 
So  I  thought  on  my  way  to  the  L.  I'd  stop  in 
At  his  place,  get-  my  book,  also  thus  ascertain 
Was  he  going  up  ;  that  I  might  not  in  vain 
Have  to  wait  if  he  could  not.     He  sat  near  the  door, 
And  he  seldom  remains  in  that  part  of  the  store. 
He  sprang  up  to  speak  to  me,  keeping  me  there 
For  more  than  an  hour.     It  was  quite  private  where 
We  were  standing,  and  not  many  people  were  in. 
But  Td  not  the  slightest  idea  I'd  been 


194  STOLEN  WATEES. 

There  so  long ;  and  was  quite  surprised,  too,  I  must  say, 
That  he  wished — as  was  evident — that  I  should  stay. 
And  wonder  he  thought  it  quite  "  prudent."     Away 
Time  rapidly  hastened,  and  forced  me  to  leave. 

To  a  masquerade  hall,  they  were  going  this  eve, 

He  and  Mrs. ,  his  wife.     I  tried  to  induce 

Him  to  tell  me  where  now  were  my  letters.     No  use 

I  found  it  to  coax  or  to  tease ;  he  refused 

To  inform  me,  or  rather  he  told  me,  'tis  true, 

So  many  improbable  stories,  I  knew 

Not  which  to  believe.     I  asked  him,  if  he'd  come 

Out  to  see  me  some  time ;  but  he  thought  he'd  not  run 

Any  risk ;  I  inquired,  if  for  no  other  one 

He  had  risked  any  more.     Said,  decidedly,  "  No!  " 

Very  flattering,  truly !     Perhaps  it  is  so. 

"  With  ease  we  believe  what  we  ardently  wish 

To  be  true  !  "     He,  however,  did  promise  me  this  : 

That  if  the  next  summer  our  people  should  be 

Away,  about  three  hundred  miles,  leaving  me 

All  alone,  he  would  try  and  come  over.     He  would 

Go  up  to  the  L.  the  next  time,  if  he  could 

Get  away  from  the  store.     Would  have  gone  up  to-day, 

Very  likely,  if  I  had  not  called  on  the  way. 

Many  thoughts  and  sweet  ones  of  my  dearest  to-night ! 

God  bless  and  preserve  him  'till  morning's  fair  light! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  195 


May  31s«,  1865. 

WEDNESDAY. 

The  last  day  of  May !     And  I  find  it  has  been 
Three  months,  and  more  even,  since  I  have  within 
These  pages  a  single  word  traced.     Also  find, 
Glancing  backward  a  little,  this  journal  of  mine 
Has  of  late  more  a  simple  heart-record  become, 
Than  aught  else  beside.     The  truth  is,  to  no  one 
Can  I  speak  of  the  pain  which  at  times  I  have  found 
Unbearable  quite.     And  the  festering  wound 
Forced  to  ever  conceal,  it  to  me  gives  relief 
Sometimes  to  give  utterance  here  to  my  grief. 
And  therefore  I  write  of  it.     Common  events 
Have,  of  late,  been  to  me  of  so  little  moment, 
I  have  come  to  ignore  them  all  here,  though  each  week 
And  each  day  brings  its  own,  either  bitter  or  sweet. 

And  as  to  my  love,  we  have  met  now  and  then, 
Sometimes  at  the  store,  at  the  L.,  or  again 
A  few  times  at  church,  once  or  twice  in  the  street. 
He  has  been  just  as  charming  whene'er  we  did  meet, 
But  I've  made  some  appointments  that  he  did  not  keep, 
And  sent  him  some  letters,  to  which  a  reply 
I  have  failed  to  receive.     I  wrote  him,  by  the  by, 
About  three  weeks  ago,  a  short  note,  to  which  I, 
Requesting  an  answer,  directed  it  sent 
"  To  remain  at  the  office  'till  called  for."     I  went 


100  STOLEN  WATERS. 

In  town  to  the  L. — though  it  stormed — on  the  day 

I  looked  for  it ;  when  coming  down,  on  Broadway, 

I  saw  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 

A  face  and  a  form  too  familiar  to  meet 

Or  pass  without  notice.     He  did  not,  although, 

Perceive  me.     Ere  I  reached  him  he  crossed  to  Park  Row, 

And  taking  a  car  moved  away  toward  home, 

Entirely  unconscious  his  "  Antony's  own  " 

Had  so  nearly  met  him.     I  should  have  been  glad 

With  him  just  a  few  moments'  chat  to  have  had, 

As  a  matter  of  course  ;  but  I  thought  I  would  be 

Quite  contented  if  I  should  find  waiting  for  me, 

At  the  office,  a  letter  from  him,  as  I  hoped. 

And  I  did ;  and  a  splendid  one,  too ;  and  I  oped 

And  its  contents  with  eager  impatience  perused. 

And  that  for  a  time  in  my  spirits  infused 

New  life,  strength,  and  joy.     By  the  way,  we,  I  find, 

Both  gave  up  our  pews  in  church  at  the  same  time, 

And  each  quite  unknown  to  the  other. 

This  eve, 
I  again  write  myself  disappointed  !     Believe 
No  one  ever  was  disappointed  so  much ! 
I  must  give  him  up.     I  can  not  endure  such 
Aggravation  and  torture  much  longer.     I  am 
Of  comfort  and  peace  destitute.     And  how  can 
Any  one  be  so  cruel  as  he  is,  at  times  ! 
He  is  more  than  provoking,  is  more  than  unkind. 
And  yet,  I  suppose  he  does  not  mean  to  be, 
Does  not  know  how  fearfully  he  torments  me. 
Many  times  I've  resolved  I  would  never  again 
Either  Write  him  or  make  an  appointment ;  and  then 


STOLEN  WATERS.  197 

Irresistible  longings  for  tidings  of  him, 

Or  desires  for  one  glimpse  of  his  dear  face,  have  been 

Triumphant,  my  good  resolutions  dispelled, 

And  while  pride  remonstrated,  and  I  have  felt 

To  the  utmost  my  folly,  have  written  again. 

Why  my  fate  must  it  been  to  have  loved  thus  in  vain  ? 

But  I  will  not  complain  ;  right  and  best,  I  doubt  not, 

It  is,  and  rebellion  is  quelled  by  the  thought 

That  underneath  all  there's  a  long-broken  vow. 

Would  I  could  forget  him !  nor  ever  allow 

Him  a  place  in  my  heart  any  more. 

I  intend 
At  the  sea-shore  to  pass  a  few  weeks  with  some  friends, 
And  expect  to  go  soon.     So,  my  Journal  friend  dear, 
Until  my  return,  I  shall  write  no  more  here. 


July  20th,  1865. 

THURSDAY. 

At  home  once  again  !  And  how  pleasant  it  seems ! 
"  There  is  no  place  like  home  ;  "  and  although  all  my  dreams 
Of  pleasure  were  fully,  I  think,  realized, 
And  the  time  gayly  passed  by  in  sails,  walks,  and  drives, 
Yet  sometimes  my  heart  turned  with  longing,  I  own, 
To  the  quiet  and  peace  of  my  dearly -loved  home. 
While  absent,  some  letters  I  had  from  a  friend, 
One  with  whom,  I  believe,  I  have  previous  to  then 
Had  no  correspondence.     Permission  to  write 
He  requested,  and  I  thought  perhaps  that  it  might 
Be  to  me  pleasant,  also,  so  gave  my  consent ; 
Stipulating,  however,  in  its  commencement, 


198  STOLEN  WATERS. 

No  love-passage  there  should  be  in  it.     He  thought 

Of  the  "  heart  disease  "  I'd  a  slight  touch,  but  'twould  not 

A  lasting  blight  prove.     Would  that  he  might  be  right ! 

He  wrote  me  nice  letters,  and  though  I  was  quite 

Glad  to  have  them,  yet  I,  caring  nothing  for  him, 

His  letters  in  consequence,  when  they  had  been 

Once  perused  and  replied  to,  could  not  be  to  me 

Of  much  farther  value. 

From  home  frequently, 
Of  course,  heard  while  absent ;  from  Colonel  Allair 
Found,  when  I  arrived,  one  awaiting  me  there. 
I  also  had  five  or  six  others  from  him ; 
Some  from  Annie,  my  friend,  who  a  long  time  has  been 
M}T  dear  correspondent ;  and  from  my  love — one  ! 
I  wrote  him  before  my  departure  from  home, 
To  say  I  was  going  ;  if  lie  liked  to  write, 
I'd  be  most  glad  to  hear.     I'd  been  staying  in  quite 
A  different  part  of  the  town,  a  few  days, 
And  so,  when  again  I  returned  to  the  place 
Where  my  letters  were  sent,  I  found  several  there. 
And  the  first  one  I  saw  was  addressed  in  his  fair, 
Well-known  hand.     'Twas  not  long,  and  neither  was  it 
Especially  pleasing  or  kind,  I  admit, 
And  I  sent  him  no  answer.     Yet  I  was  more  glad 
To  receive  it  than  any  besides  that  I  had. 
Was  not  well — he  wrote — and  that  letter  to  me 
Was  the  first  he  had  written  in  some  weeks  ;  and  he 
Ought  not  even  then  to  be  writing.     Had  been 
Very  busy  indeed  ;  and  expected,  within 
A  few  days,  out  of  town  to  remove  ;  but  did  not, 
Of  course,  tell  me  where,  though  he  could  but  have  thought 
I'd  be  anxious  to  know. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  199 

Mamma  now  soon  intends 
To  go  into  the  country  a  few  weeks,  and  then 
I  think  that  for  him  I  may  possibly  send, 
And  give  him  a  chance  to  his  promise  redeem. 
As  he  will,  if  he  yet  cares  about  me,  I  ween  ! 


August  1st,  1865. 


TUESDAY. 


I  am  thoroughly  wretched,  and  reckless  as  well ! 
What  of  late  has  come  o'er  me,  I  scarcely  can  tell ; 
But  I've  felt  for  awhile,  as  if  at  any  cost 
I  must  have  my  love !     And  my  heart,  tempest-tossed 
And  despairing,  is  utterly  desperate  now, 
And  I  will  be  something  to  him,  I  avow  ! 
For  him  I  have  sacrificed  my  peace  of  mind, 
Independence,  my  pride,  happiness,  and,  in  fine, 
Everything  but  my  honor — am  tempted  to  say 
That  if  I  can  have  him  in  no  other  way, 
Even  that  shall  go  also.     To  him,  all  the  deepest, 
And  freshest,  and  fondest,  the  purest,  and  sweetest 
Emotions  and  thoughts  of  a  heart  only  he 
Has  power  to  thrill — all  the  wealth  of  a  free 
And  impassioned  first  love — and  one,  too,  felt  to  be 
The  one  love  of  my  life — has  been  long  consecrated, 
And  he  cares  for  it  nothing!      I  am  aggravated 
Endurance  beyond ;  past  resistance  am  tempted  ; 
Exhausted  with  being  from  pain  ne'er  exempted ; 


200  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  weary,  and  heart-sick  of  struggles  to  gain 
The  mastery  over  this  hopeless,  and  vain, 
This  humiliating,  tormenting,  and  quite 
Uncontrollable  love.     Indignation,  grief,  pride, 
On  my  part — indifference,  coldness,  neglect, 
On  his  own,  do  not  have  e'en  the  slightest  effect, 
Except  more  completely  to  make  me  the  slave 
Of  this  fierce,  overpowering  passion.     Things  grave, 
And  not  pleasant,  are  these  to  acknowledge,  I  know ; 
Nor  anywhere  else  but  here  could  I  do  so. 
But  all  confidences  are  sacred  with  you, 
My  Journal,  my  friend  ever  silent  and  true ! 
Feeling  thus,  I  have  written  a  letter  to  him, 
And  written  like  this: 

"  My  Dear  e  John  .-' 

"  Opening 
My  casket  of  letters,  the  first  thing  that  met 
My  eye  was  one  written  by  you,  and  not  yet 
Acknowledged.     My  time  being  quite  occupied 
While  I  was  away,  and  I  having,  besides, 
Many  letters  to  write,  I  did  not  answer  yours — 
As  it  would  not  matter  to  you,  I  felt  sure. 
But  since  having  seen  it  this  morning,  of  you 
I've  been  thinking  much  ;  our  relations  unto 
Each  other  reviewed,  and  have  now  come  to  write 
To  you  the  result. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I'm  quite 
Resolved  upon  this  :  that  the  state  of  things  now 
Existing  between  us  I  will  not  allow 
To  longer  continue.     You  very  well  know 
It  has  been  to  me  most  aggravating,  also 
Unpleasant,  at  times — our  acquaintance — although 


STOLEN  WATERS.  201 

I  presume  that  it  often  has  been  my  own  fault, 

More  than  yours ;  but  some  things  have  excessively  galled 

My  sensitive  feelings,  when  probably  you 

Were  unconscious  of  giving  offence.     It  is  true, 

I  have  written  you  letters,  and  more  than  a  few, 

Such  as  no  gentleman  to  me  ever  would  sent 

More  than  once  ;  and  your  very  forbearance — well  meant 

As  I  doubt  not  it  was — has  sometimes  made  me  more 

Annoyed  with  you  still.     You  have  exercised  o'er 

Me  a  strange  fascination ;  and,  bent  to  your  will 

My  high  spirit  has  been,  and  pride  also,  until 

I  feel  I  can't  longer  endure  it.     I  may 

Have  told  you,  perhaps,  the  same  thing  ere  to-day  J 

But  then  it  was  written  on  impulse,  and  now 

1  am  deeply  in  earnest ;  and  you  will  allow 

That  if  you  have  found  me  '  all  things  at  all  times,' 

I  at  least  have  been  always  sincere  ! 

"  Now,  in  fine, 
I  am  ready  to  meet  you  upon  your  own  terms, 
Or  to  meet  you  no  more!  just  as  you  shall  discern 
Will  be  best.     You  know  very  well  why  you  came 
To  see  me  the  first  time  ;  with  motives  the  same 
If  you  now  desire  calling  upon  me  again, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you.     You  told  me  that  when 
Mamma  was  '  three  hundred  miles  distant,'  you  then 
Would  come  over  ;  and  now  is  the  time  to  fulfil 
The  promise  you  made — and  I'm  sure  that  you  will, 
If  you  have  the  slightest  regard  for  me  still. 
Should  you  come  out  here  once,  and  you  then  do  not  choose 
To  do  so  again,  I  will  ask  you  to  lose 
No  more  time  for  me.     But  I  think  you  will  not 
Megret  it,  if  you  should  decide  to  come  out. 
9 


202  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  I  think  that  indeed  it  is  much  more  for  your 

Interest  than  it  can  be  for  mine,  I  am  sure ! 

I  expect  to  receive  you  on  Wednesday  p.m., 

Between  one  and  five,  unless  I  before  then 

Hear  something  contrary ;  and  you  will  please  write 

Should  you  fail  to  come  out. 

"  Now  in  closing,  good-night ! 
With  kind  wishes  for  you,  and  with  hopes  we  may  meet 
Before  many  days,  I  am 

"  Yours, 

"  Bitter-Sweet." 

I  do  not  much  think  he  will  come,  but  he  may ; 
And  suppose,  that  it  too  would  be  best  every  way, 
That  he  should  not — for  him,  and  me  also — and  still, 
Notwithstanding  all  "  prudence,"  I  do  hope  he  will ! 


August  4:thy  1865. 


FRIDAY. 


My  mother  and  Gertrude  went  off  Wednesday  morn, 
And  some  five  or  six  weeks  they  will  doubtless  be  gone. 
And  when  afternoon  came  I  expected  him  some, 
As  no  note  I'd  received,  saying  he  should  not  come. 
Watched  and  waited,  but  vainly.     I  did  think  he  might 
Have  written,  at  least ;  though  'twas  possible,  quite, 
He  intended  to  come,  and  could  not  get  away, 
And  so  would  be  out  on  the  following  day. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  203 

The  next  morning  the  carrier  brought  me  a  note 

From  him,  and  my  heart  seemed  to  leap  to  my  throat 

As  I  took  off  the  wrapper,  expecting  to  find 

That  he  could  not  or  would  not  come  out.     But  this  time 

I  was,  if  disappointed,  agreeably  so. 

I  ought  to  have  had  it  on  Wednesday,  although, 

As  'twas  written  the  first.     Said  that  he  did  not  know 

Until  the  receipt  of  my  letter,  that  day, 

That  I  had  returned.     Then  he  went  on  to  say, 

Had  business  way  down  town  that  p.m.,  so  he 

Thought  that  he'd  steal  an  hour,  and  slip  over  to  B. 

Told  in  detail  his  search  for  the  house,  and  then  writes  : 

"  I  rang  at  the  door,  which  was  then  open  wide, 

At  about  three  o'clock.     A  young  lady  replied 

To  the  summons,  who  was  not  B.  S. ;  so  I  thought 

I  might  justly  conclude  that  your  people  had  not 

Gone  '  three  hundred  miles  '  out  of  town,  or  else  they 

Had  come  back  in  a  hurry.     Am  going  away 

To-morrow,  and  may  return  Friday  ;  if  so, 

Will  see  you  if  possible." 

Well !  you  must  know, 
My  Journal,  this  letter  was,  to  the  suspense 
And  doubt  I  then  felt,  a  relief  most  intense. 
I  could  not,  at  once,  though,  remember  at  all 
At  that  day  and  hour  there  had  any  one  called. 
But  at  last  recollected  that  some  one  did  ring, 
And  of  Gertrude,  who  went  to  the  door,  directing 
A  gentleman  up  the  street  farther  ;  and  thought 
At  the  time,  what  a  soft  voice  he  had ;  but  did  not 
Once  dream  of  its  being  my  friend  ;  and  am  glad 
That  I  did  not  go  to  the  door.     If  I  had 


204:  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Some  suspense,  though,  'twould  saved  me,  of  course.     But 

Gertrude 
Did  not  recognize  him  at  all,  I  conclude. 
I  wondered  if  he  heard  me  scolding ;  I  know 
I  was  fearfully  nervous  and  cross ;  thought  also, 
He  perhaps  might  have  seen  me  ;  I  sat  just  inside 
The  back-parlor,  with  both  folding-doors  open  wide. 
But  he  said  he  did  not.     That  was  Tuesday !  the  day 
Before  mother  and  Gertrude  were  going  away. 
And  this  afternoon  he  was  here !  and  is  still 
My  love  !  and  my  darling !     I  feel  that  until 
This  day  I've  indeed  never  known  him.     I  find 
I've  often  misjudged  him  ;  for  he,  good  and  kind, 
Of  the  recklessness  in  my  last  letter  expressed, 
No  advantage  did  take  ;  but,  instead,  I  confess, 
Treated  me  with  the  utmost  respect.     Friendship  true, 
Regard  deep  and  warm,  and  much  tenderness,  too, 
Was  betrayed  in  each  action  and  word  ;  and  yet,  he 
Not  even  at  parting  so  much  as  kissed  me ! 
Conclusively  proved  how  unjust  I  had  been, 
By  an  improper  motive  ascribing  to  him, 
In  his  first  visits  to  me. 

I  never  can  read 
Him  at  all ;  and  his  heart  is  a  sealed  book  indeed ! 
To  think  evil  of  him,  I  am  too  much  inclined. 
So  in  this  case,  at  least,  I'm  sure,  love  is  not  blind. 
I  am  so  glad  to  find  that  my  darling's  so  true ! 
And  feel  I  have  in  fearful  peril  been,  too, 
And  thank  God  I  am  safe.     For  had  he  proved  to  be 
Less  honorable — noble — had  he  tempted  me — 
I  know  not — I  might  have  had  strength  to  resist, 
And  natural  virtue  been  roused  to  assist, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  205 

But  I'm  thankful,  at  least,  that  I  then  was  not  tried, 
And  that  I  have  at  length  all  his  goodness  descried. 

I  stood  talking  with  Bella,  my  friend,  at  her  gate, 
And  still  hoping,  although  "  my  love  he  was  late !  " 
When  I  saw  him  approaching.     My  heart  gave  a  bound 
And  stood  still,  as  I  entered  the  house  and  sat  down, 
And  endeavored  my  turbulent  pulses  to  calm, 
While  I  waited  his  coming,  and  knew  that  the  man 
Whom   I  love  "with  a  love  passing  knowledge,"  would 

soon — 
His  dear  self — be  beside  me  in  this  very  room. 

He  has  moved  up  to  Harlem  ;  next  door,  I  believe, 
To  his  father.     He  went  about  six.     All  the  eve 
My  head  has  ached  fearfully  ;  so,  without  lights, 
I've  sat  in  the  window  and  dreamed.     And  the  night 
Is  perfectly  lovely  ! 

One  more  happy  day  ! 
Yet  a  happiness,  doubtful,  somewhat,  I  must  say. 
He  said  he  would  come  out  again  the  next  week. 
God  bless  him  to-night,  and  from  all  danger  keep ! 


August  5th,  1865. 

SATURDAY. 


Can  it  be  that  but  yesterday  he  was  with  me  ? 
That  my  hand  was  once  more  clasped  in  his,  and  that  he 
Then  rested  his  dear  head  awhile  on  my  knee  ? 


206  STOLEN   WATERS. 

For  he,  world-weary  man — lie,  my  indolent  boy, 

Must  needs  have  a  lounge,  and  my  lap  must  employ 

As  a  pillow.     Am  blue  to-day  !  thoughts  of  "  what  might 

Have  been,"  crowd  so  close  on  my  heart,  that  in  spite 

Of  myself  I  am  sad.     I  expected,  to-day, 

A  note  from  my  late  correspondent.     Must  say, 

Though  none  was  received,  I  cared  not ;  for,  as  long 

As  he  is  "  my  own,"  what  beside  can  I  want  ? 

My  dear  one  !  yet  not  mine,  and  never  can  be. 

But  I  must  not  dwell  upon  this ;  it  makes  me 

Too  entirely  unhappy.     Ah,  truly !     "  The  grief 

Of  affection  betrayed  is  but  tame  and  brief 

Beside  a  forbidden  love's  utter  despair!  " 

God  pity  and  love  me  is  my  earnest  prayer. 


August   6th,   1865. 

SUNDAY. 

One  more  breaking  out  of  the  old  wound !     To-day 
I  have  been  far  more  mis'rable  than  I  can  say. 
Have  not  been  out  at  all ;  and  I  hardly  have  left 
My  room  since  the  morn,  and  for  hours  I  have  wept. 
Wrote  to  mother,  but  oidy  a  note.      Could  not  write. 
Why  cannot  I  conquer  this  passion,  whose  might 
And  intensity  chokes  me,  and  fills  my  poor  heart 
With  sadness  so  often  ?     Indeed  !  we  must  part  I 
I  must  give  him  up ;  he  can  never  be  mine ! 
I  am  very  unhappy  if  he  is  unkind, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  207 

And  if  proofs  of  affection  he  gives  me,  then  thoughts 
Of — not  what  I  have  lost,  bvit  of  what  I  cannot 
Ever  gain,  and  that  he  is  not  only  not  mine, 
But  another's  instead,  rushes  on  me  at  times, 
With  such  force  as  completely  to  overwhelm  me, 
And  my  self-control,  hardly-won,  break  down  utterly  ! 


September  12^/i,  1865. 

TUESDAY. 

Has  more  than  a  month  been  since  I've  written  here, 
And  within  that  short  time — oh,  what  ages  of  fear, 
Hope,  pain,  and  suspense  I've  endured  and  lived  through. 
I  thought  I'd  before  been  most  wretched,  'tis  true  ! 
But  nothing  that  could  in  the  least  be  compared 
To  this,  have  I  ever  experienced.     There 
Has  day  after  day  been,  when  all  I  have  felt 
Was  a  longing  desire  for  "  escape  from  myself, 
And  oblivion  of  time."     When  from  this  to  that  place, 
With  a  quite  tearless  eye,  but  a  white,  anguished  face, 
Have  I  wandered  ;  now  pausing  awhile  in  my  room, 
Drawing  down  the  blind  close,  and  with  darkness  and  gloom 
Replacing  the  sunlight  that  mocked  my  despair — 
On  my  bed  for  awhile,  lying  silently  there, 
Then  crouched  on  the  floor  with  my  head  in  a  chair, 
Down  stairs  in  the  parlors,  a  book  in  my  hand, 
But  the  purport  of  which  I  could  not  understand ; 
And  then  perhaps  playing  a  half-dozen  chords, 
Which  had  much  less  of  harmony  than  of  discord, 


208  STOLEN  WATERS 

Or  leaning  far  back  in  a  rocker,  in  vain 

Endeavoring  thus  with,  the  turbulent  pain 

In  my  heart  to  keep  pace — Oh  !  my  God  alone  knows 

How  brimful  of  agony  to  me  were  those 

Few  weeks,  at  length  ended  forever.     It  seems, 

Looking  back  on  it  now,  like  a  long,  fearful  dream  ; 

For  a  calm  has  succeeded  the  storm,  or,  at  least, 

The  exhaustion  that  comes  with  severe  pain's  release. 

Two  weeks  I  looked  for  him  almost  every  day, 
And  vainly.     A  letter  he  wrote  then,  to  say 
He  had  met  with  an  accident,  somewhat  severe, 
On  the  cars,  which  some  days  had  confined  him,  and  feared 
'Twould  be  several  more  before  he  should  be  out 
Permanently ;  was  going  right  home ;  when  about, 
He  should  try  and  come  over.     My  hopes  this  renewed, 
And  confidence  too.     One  more  week  ensued, 
And  then  I  began  to  expect  him  again. 
One  day  I  in  town  went,  with  Bella,  my  friend, 
And  so  at  the  store  called,  in  order  that  he 
Might  know  I  was  not  home  in  case  he  should  be 
Intending  that  day  to  go  over  to  B. 
But  he  was  not  in.     The  clerk  said  had  been  out 
For  more  than  an  hour,  and  'twas  doubtful  about 
His  again  coming  in.     I  supposed,  of  course,  then, 
He  had  gone  to  see  me.     Was  in  torture  again, 
Until  I  reached  home,  and  found  out  he  had  not. 
The  next  day  was  in  town  again ;  therefore,  I  thought 
To  end  my  suspense  I'd  make  one  more  attempt, 
Or  at  least  ascertain  if  he  really  meant 
To  come  out  or  not ;  so  I  called ;  he  was  in, 
But  so  busy  I  had  but  a  few  words  with  him. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  209 

He  said  he  intended  to  come  out  that  day, 

But  had  so  much  to  do  he  could  not  get  away. 

Had  had  some  reverses  in  business,  and  then 

Was  not  his  own  master.     I  had  that  a.m. 

A  letter  from  mother  received,  saying  she 

Should  be  home  the  next  Thursday.    I  told  him,  and  he 

Said  that  he  would  come  over  that  day,  if  he  could ; 

Could  not  say  with  positiveness  that  he  should  ; 

But  would  unless  business  prevented.     But  I 

Then  gave  up  his  coming ;  and  Thursday  passed  by 

And  I  did  not  see  him. 

The  next  morning  brought 
From  mother  a  letter,  and  stating  she  thought 
She  should  visit  Boston  before  she  came  home  ; 
Consequently,  should  some  two  weeks  longer  be  gone. 
And  one  from  him  also,  and  saying  that  he 
Intended  that  day  to  get  over  to  B., 
But  found  it  impossible ;  as  he  was  quite 
With  visitors  over-run,  and  had  beside 
His  hands  full  of  business,  and  knew  not  at  times 
Hardly  what  he  was  doing.     And  then  wrote,  in  fine, 
"  Don't  feel  cross  with  me,  though,  I  have  got  a  head  wind 
But  hope  for  fair  weather  again,  by  and  by  !  " 
This  rather  brought  me  to  my  senses  ;  and  I 
Felt  ashamed  that  I  had  been  so  cross  with  him  then — 
Thus  adding  unto  his  annoyances,  when 
He  already  was  quite  over-burdened,  although 
I,  of  course,  did  not  know  he  was  troubled.    And  so 
I  fully  resolved  that  another  cross  word 
I  would  nevermore  send  him,  whatever  occurred. 
When  I  could  not  write  pleasantly,  I  would  not  write. 


210  STOLEN  WATERS. 

My  mother  and  Gertie  arrived  home  to-night, 
And  the  mis'rable  past  I  am  trying  to  seal 
From  sight,  in  my  heart's  darkest  corner ;  but  feel 
Its  effects  will  not  be  quite  so  easy  concealed. 


September  I9t7i,  1865. 

TUESDAY. 

To-morrow  our  place  of  abode  we  shall  change, 
And  I  shall  write  "  home"  in  a  house  new  and  strange. 
To-night,  for  the  last  time,  I  sleep  in  this  room, 
And  leave  it  with  many  regrets.     Just  as  soon 
As  'round  a  place  bright  recollections  of  him 
Have  clustered  most  fondly  and  sweetly,  we've  been 
Forced  to  leave  it,  and  in  a  new  place,  to  begin 
Our  home-life,  and  therein  our  home  altars  rear. 
Better  so,  perhaps  !     Thoughts  of  him  are  not,  I  fear, 
Very  good  for  me  ;  and,  although  I  have  to-day, 
In  outward  appearance,  been  lively  and  gay, 
'Twas  only  to  cover  the  aching  within ; 
Only  to  drive  away  sad  thoughts  of  him, 
And  my  love  that's  so  hopeless  and  vain.     Many  times 
Tears  unbidden  would  spring  to  my  eyes,  and  I  find  * 
Them  hard  to  repress  ;  but  I  knew  'twould  not  do 
To  indulge  them,  so  they  were  forced  back,  and  none  knew 
Or  dreamed  of  the  pain  I  was  hiding  so  well. 
Many  things  occur  daily,  of  him  to  impel 
Remembrance ;  and  when  I  begin  to  forget 


STOLEN  WATEBS.  211 

Some  light,  trifling  thing  will  bring  all  back,  with  yet 
Greater  force  renewing  each  banished  regret. 


November  2d,  1865. 

THURSDAY. 

The  morning  my  birth-day  again  ushers  in  ! 
And  with  it,  of  course,  a  ne,w  year  I  begin, 
With  most  earnest  hopes  that  its  record  may  be 
More  tranquil  than  this  one  has  been.     Yes !  I  see 
That  is  what  I  desire — a  calm,  after  the  dark, 
Stormy  night ;  and  sweet  peace  for  my  sad  troubled  heart. 
But  when  I  shall  have  it,  our  God  alone  knows. 
But  not  'till  I  cease  to  do  wrong,  I  suppose, 
And  learn  to  do  light.     It  is  so  hard  to  feel, 
At  all  times,  that  "  all's  for  the  best !  "  hard  to  kneel 
And  kiss  with  submission  the  hand  that  would  smite. 
The  last  year  passed  swiftly  away.     If  I  might, 
I  would  not  recall  it ;  some  parts  have  been  quite 
Too  unhappy.     I  have  not  recovered,  as  yet, 
From  the  anguish — or  rather  its  blighting  effect — ■ 
I  endured  in  those  drear  August  days.     And  must  say, 
I  could  fancy  myself  ten  years  older  to-day 
Than  I  was  at  that  time.     I  look  back,  too,  and  feel 
With  surprise,  what  'twere  vain  to  attempt  to  conceal, 
How  much  deeper,  more  tender  my  love  is  for  him 
Than  'twas  three  months  ago.     And  yet,  I  within 
These  pages  still  hope,  ere  a  year  from  to-night, 
Of  the  end  of  this  unhappy  passion  to  write. 


212  STOLEN  WATERS. 


December  2>\st,  1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I've  written  "  eighteen  sixty -five,"  I  suppose, 
For  the  last  time  this  year.     And  I  write  at  its  close 
One  more  anniversary  to  commemorate, 
The  dearest,  and  sweetest  of  all !     When,  elate 
With  the  joy  of  his  presence,  I  had  not  a  thought 
But  that  he  was  with  me.     And  how  fully  fraught 
Were  the  moments  with  gladness  !     Yet  Xdid  not  dream 
That  I  loved  him  !     How  strange  that  I  could  not  have  seen 
What  it  meant — such  infatuation  !     That  day 
Was,  without  exception,  I  think  I  may  say, 
The  happiest  one  of  my  life ;  one  which  had 
No  bitter  enwreathed  with  the  sweet  of  its  glad 
Happy  moments — just  two  years  ago! 

It  has  been 
More  than  four  months  since  I  have  had  one  glimpse  of  him 
I  wrote  him  on  his  birth-day,  some  two  months  ago, 
And  once  since — on  the  last  anniversary,  though, 
Of  our  correspondence's  commencement.     To  these 
No  reply  I  received,  or  expected — though  pleased 
I  of  course  should  have  been  to  have  had  one.     To-night, 
In  remembrance  of  two  years  ago,  I  shall  write. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  I  have  quite  ceased  to  grieve, 
And  have  not  been  so  cheerful  for  months.     But  last  eve, 
After  I  had  retired,  the  old  billows  once  more 
Surged  over  my  heart,  breaking  down,  as  of  yore, 
All  the  barriers  my  hardly-won  self-control 
Had  attempted  to  rear,  again  flooding  my  soul 


STOLEN  WATERS.  213 

With  the  bitter  and  turbulent  waters.     At  times 

It  is  so  hard  to  feel  he  can  never  be  mine, 

But  is  always  another's  !     The  Colonel,  my  dear, 

Kind  friend,  does  a  great  deal  my  sad  heart  to  cheer  ; 

And  his  letters,  so  frequent  and  loving,  to  me 

Of  inestimable  value  have  long  come  to  be. 


January  4th,  1866. 

THURSDAY. 

This  day  should  be  marked  as  a  "  red-letter  day  !  " 
It  has  been,  oh,  so  happy,  and  yet,  in  some  ways, 
So  miserable  also  !     The  bitter  and  sweet 
In  my  cup  invariably  meet  and  compete. 
The  carrier  brought  me  a  letter  this  morn, 
From  my  love !    And  'twas  not  short  and  cold,  but  more 

warm 
And  pleasing  than  any  before  I  have  had. 
While  its  contents  perusing,  tears,  happy  and  glad, 
Welled  up  to  my  eyes,  and,  unheeded,  brimmed  o'er. 
I  glanced  with  haste  through  it,  then  turned,  and  once  more 
With  loving  delight  read  each  word.     On  my  mind 
Slowly  dawning  a  consciousness  for  the  first  time, 
The  thought  that  it  was  barely  possible  he, 
My  love  and  my  darling,  might  also  love  me. 
I  scarcely  can  credit  it ;  dare  not  believe 
That  j.t  can  be  true. 

He  wrote  he  had  received 
Mine  the  previous  day,  and  intended  to  write 
At  once  ;  but  was  called  off  before  he  had  quite 


214  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Got  started,  and  so  was  obliged  to  forego 

Until  that  time.     He  blamed  himself  much — said  also — • 

That  he'd  not  before  written  in  answer  to  mine ; 

Had  honestly  meant  to,  but  from  time  to  time 

Had  deferred  it,  till  he  was  ashamed  to,  and  then 

Was  fearful  that  it  would  not  reach  me.     Again 

And  again  he  most  kindly  assured  me  I'd  not 

Been  forgotten,  I  was  not  to  think  it ;  had  thought 

Of  me  very  often  ;  and  that  he  would  like 

Very  much  to  see  me  ;  also  said  if  I'd  write, 

And  at  the  L.  make  an  appointment,  and  soon, 

But  not  'till  a  late  hour  of  some  afternoon, 

He'd  keep  it,  if  possible.     I  must  not  be 

Disappointed,  although,  if  he  should  not ;  as  he 

Was  upon  circumstances  dependent. 

I've  been 
Expecting  to  go  East  this  winter — within 
A  few  weeks  from  now  very  likely  shall  go. 
And  in  my  last  letter,  of  course  told  him  so ; 
So  when  I  am  going  he  wishes  to  know, 
And  where.     And  he  says  that  he  certainly  must 
See  me  ere  I  shall  leave.     And  his  wishes,  I  trust, 
And  mine  also,  may  gratified  be  !     And  then  he 
In  closing  writes : 

"  Do  not  think  hardly  of  me, 
Or  judge  me  unkindly.     I'm  not  what  I  seem 
To  be,  in  many  ways,  and  would  say  many  things 
That  I  dare  not,  and  possibly  ought  not." 

I  am 
So  glad,  now,  I  have  not  been  cross !     But  how  can 
I  help  thinking  he  loves  me  ?     If  I  only  knew 
That  he  did — though  'twould  be  "  stolen  waters,"  'tis  true- 


STOLEN  WATERS.  215 

I  could  then  separation  or  silence  endure — 
Anything,  if  I  could  of  his  love  but  be  sure  ! 
Thus  the  New  Year  again  brings  me  happiness  pure. 


January  18  th,  1866. 

THURSDAY. 

Is  it  possible  that  in  my  journal  this  eve 
I  write  for  the  last  time  in  Brooklyn  ?     And  leave 
To-morrow  the  place  endeared  to  me  by  so 
Many  sweet  recollections  ?     And  although  I  know 
That  it  is  the  truth,  I  cannot  bring  my  mind 
To  realize  it  as  a  fact. 

For  some  time 
I've  written  so  seldom  and  briefly,  I  find 
I  neglected  to  state  that  some  ten  months  ago 
My  brother  to  Boston  removed,  and  also 
That  father  has  been  there  some  months,  and  intends 
To  have  us  all  go  in  the  spring.     Of  course,  then, 
I  shall  not  return.     And  my  last  moments  here 
Are  shadowed  by  a  disappointment  severe. 
I  made  an  appointment  not  quite  two  weeks  since, 
And  which  he  failed  to  keep.    But  yet,  being  convinced 
That  he  was  not  in  fault,  I  did  not  feel  cross, 
Although  disappointed,  as  he  doubtless  was. 
I  am  going  away  sooner  than  I  have  been 
Intending  to  do ;  consequently,  wrote  him 
To  that  effect ;  also  appointing  again 
For  Tuesday  an  interview  ;  but  it  rained  then, 


216  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  I  did  not  go.     Yesterday  I  went  in 

And  stopped  at  the  store.     On  inquiring  for  him, 

To  my  consternation  as  well  as  surprise, 

That  he  was  at  home,  sick  in  bed,  was  apprised. 

Thus  again  were  my  dearest  hopes  blighted ;  and  I 

To  Brooklyn  and  Lome  forced  to  murmur  good-by, 

With  no  farewell  word  from  my  love,  whom  I've  not 

For  five  weary  months  once  beheld.     Oh  !  the  thought 

Almost  breaks  my  heart !     It  is  cruel,  I'm  sure, 

And  bitterly,  bitterly  hard  to  endure. 

To  my  brother  a  letter  I'd  written  that  day, 

Intending  to  mail  it  that  evening,  to  say 

I  should  be  there  to-morrow.     I  stood  a  long  time 

At  the  office,  with  it  in  my  hand,  half  inclined 

Not  to  send  it  at  all,  but  to  write  them,  instead, 

That  I  should  not  come  on.     Looking  forward  with  dread 

To  an  absence  from  home  while  my  darling  was  ill, 

With  no  hopes  of  tidings  of  him,  as,  until 

I  should  know  he  was  well,  I  would  not  dare  to  write  ; 

And  he  knew  not  where  to  address.     Well  I  might 

Hesitate !     But  the  true  reason  I  could  not  state, 

And  I  had  no  other  excuse.     'Twas  too  late, 

I  decided  at  length,  to  turn  back  ;  so  I  sent 

My  letter,  and  then,  with  an  aching  heart,  went 

Up  town,  and  the  night  with  my  friend  Annie  spent. 

She  had  visitors,  and  the  whole  eve  was  to  me 

One  long  torture  ! 

And  now,  a  sad  farewell  to  B ! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  217 


March  31st,  1866. 

SATUKDAY. 

The  first  month  of  spring !  and  ray  record  again 
Is  in  Brooklyn,  and  home !    I  imagined  that  when 
I  once  more  was  here  I  should  quite  happy  be; 
But  there  is  so  much  of  him  to  remind  me, 
That  it  keeps  me  sad  constantly.     Then  I  have  not 
Been  well,  either,  since  my  return,  and  no  doubt 
That  my  spirits  helped  some  to  depress.     Father  thought 
When  I  left,  it  was  doubtful  extremely  about 
Our  moving  to  Boston  this  spring.     Gertie,  too, 
Was  qtiite  ill,  and  they  were  "  so  lonely,"  I'knew 
That  I  ought  to  go  home,  and  was  glad  so  to  do, 
Although  every  effort  to  render  my  stay 
In  B.  pleasant  was  made ;  and  indeed,  I  must  say 
Was  unhappy  much  less  than  I  feared  I  should  be ; 
And  Fannie,  my  sister,  returned  home  with  me. 

Of  course,  of  or  from  my  friend  naught  I  had  heard, 
And  was  anxious,  exceedingly,  too,  for  some  word. 
Ho  when  I  was  home  a  few  days,  I  went  in, 
And  called  at  his  place  for  some  tidings  of  him. 
Found  he  had  been  ill  all  the  time  I  was  gone ; 
But  was  better  then,  and  would  be  out  before  long. 
About  a  week  later  was  in  town  once  more, 
And  having  occasion  to  call  at  the  store, 
To  purchase  a  book,  casually  inquired 
If  he  was  within,  with  no  thought  the  desire 
10 


218  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Of  my  heart  would  be  granted  fulfilment.     Was  glad 

To  learn  that  he'd  been  down  that  day,  though  he  had, 

The  clerk  said,  just  gone  out.     Some  days  after,  we  met 

In  New  York,  on  Broadway  ;  but,  to  my  great  regret, 

He  had  with  him  a  gentleman — Fan  was  with  me — 

So  content  with  mere  greeting  was  I  forced  to  be. 

Nothing  but  aggravation  was  that,  when  not  once 

Had  I  seen  my  darling  in  seven  long  months. 

Then  I  wrote ;  but  receiving  no  word  in  reply, 

Went  in  to  see  him.     He  was  cordial ;  but  I 

Was  quite  cool  at  first,  'till  I  found  he  had  not 

Been  able  for  months  to  read,  write,  or  do  aught 

Of  the  kind.     His  physician  forbade  it,  and  feared 

That  another  attack,  if  as  long  and  severe 

As  the  last,  would  entirely  deprive  him  of  sight. 

My  dearest !     Mi y  God,  in  His  infinite  might, 

And  love,  such  affliction  avert.  -    I  suppose 

He  suffers  intensely  when  prostrate  with  those 

Prolonged  and  repeated  attacks ;  and  he  says 

He's  often  delirious,  unconscious  for  days ; 

And  when  sane,  he  can  neither  endure  light  nor  sound, 

And  days  of  convalescence  roll  tardily  'round. 

'Tis  a  nervous  affection,  and  is  the  same  thing 

That  confined  him  so  long  in  the  wearisome  spring 

Of  two  years  ago  ;  but  his  health  otherwise 

Is  robust ;  and  unmarred  are  his  beautiful  eyes, 

Though  his  sight  is  impaired. 

He  said  he  wrote  me 
Last  week,  just  as  well  as  he  could,  although  he 
Was  fearful  that  I  could  not  read  it,  and  thought 
It  was  doubtful  if  he  could  himself.     He  forgot 


STOLEN  WATERS.  219 

My  address,  and  so  it  to  the  post-office  sent ; 
And  I  called  there  to  get  it  ag:  homeward  I  went. 
'Twas  written  in  pencil,  and  all  sorts  of  ways, 
And  formed,  to  the  usual  neatness  and  grace, 
With  which  he  is  wont  his  nice  letters  to  trace, 
Quite  a  contrast  indeed. 

He  told  me  that  one 
Of  my  letters  was  sent  to  the  house ;  it  had  come 
To  the  store,  at  the  time  he  was  absent — at  home. 

Mrs. thought  that  it  "  looked  like  a  lady's  fine  hand." 

'Twas  quite  likely  a  bill,  he  made  her  understand. 
He  does  not  come  in  town  until  late,  he  told  me, 
And  leaves  the  store  early.     How  nice  it  must  be 
To  have  him  at  home  so  much !  though  perhaps  she 
Does  not  care  about  it  as  I  should.     But  this 
I  must  not  dwell  upon,  a  topic  that  is 
Forbidden  to  me. 

I  was  quite  calm  that  day 
In  my  interview  with  him,  and  have  been,  I  must  say, 
Ever  since.     Can  it  be  I  am  loving  him  less  ? 
Oh,  would  it  were  so  !  dare  not  think  it,  tho',  lest 
I'm  again  overwhelmed  before  I  am  aware 
With  its  might  and  intenseness,  its  bitter  despair. 


April  27th,  18GG. 

FRIDAY. 

I  saw  my  dear  friend  about  two  weeks  ago, 
When  was  made  at  the  L.  an  appointment,  although 


220  STOLEN  WATERS. 

He  to/dd  if  I  came  in  he'd  like  me  to  call 

At  the  store  on  my  way.     But  I  do  not  at  all 

Like  to  go  there,  and  told  him  so  also,  but  he 

Insisting  upon  it,  I  could  but  agree. 

The  day  previous  to  that  we  appointed,  a  note 

From  him  I  received,  and  in  which  he  then  wrote 

He  might  be  away  the  next  day,  but  if  not 

He  would  at  the  store  be,  about  three  o'clock. 

Hesitating  awhile  about  going,  at  last 

I  decided  I  would  ;  it  was  just  quarter  past 

When  I  entered  his  place ;  on  inquiring  for  him 

Was  informed  he  had  stepped  out,  but  soon  would  be  in. 

Supposing  of  course  that  such  word  he  had  left, 

I  waited  and  waited,  until,  quite  bereft 

Of  jiatience,  I  paper  inquired  for,  and  wrote 

With  haste  a  few  lines,  of  course  leaving  the  note. 

I  was  rather  surprised  at  how  coolly,  though,  I 

Took  the  matter ;  did  not,  as  in  days  now  gone  by, 

Feel  at  all  cross  with  him,  neither  was  I  so  much 

Disappointed  as  often  I  am  under  such 

Circumstances.     I  feel  quite  encouraged  !     Before 

I  have  thought  I  was  not  quite  so  much  as  of  yore 

In  captivity  to  him,  but  one  interview, 

Or  a  letter  from  him,  has  dispelled,  it  is  true, 

All  my  fancied  indifference ;  but  it  has  stood 

Now  both  tests.     I  was  vexed  with  myself,  that  I  should 

Have  waited.     I  never  before  have  done  so, 

Nor  should  I  then,  had  I  not  reason  to  know^ 

Or  think,  that  he  soon  would  be  in.     A  few  days 

Thereafter,  a  note  I  received,  when  he  says 

He  went  in  that  day  purposely  to  see  me. 

Waiting  there  at  the  store  'till  twelve  minutes  past  three, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  221 

And  then  returned  home  again,  as  he'd  some  men 
At  work  on  his  place,  and  his  presence  with  them 
Was  required.     He  would  see  me  this  week. 

In  reply, 
I  wrote  that  I  thought  it  was  doubtful  if  I 
Would  be  able  to  come  in  this  week ;  if  I  could, 
That  I'd  let  him  know,  but,  that  I  certainly  should 
N~ot  call  at  the  store.     Near  the  close  I  wrote,  though, 
If  he  made  an  appointment,  I  thought  I  might  go, 
And  to  do  as  he  liked.     But  it's  now  Friday  eve, 
And  he  has  not ;  indeed,  though,  I  hardly  believed 
That  he  would.      But  I  think  the  time  will  come  when  he 
Will  make  an  appointment,  and  anxious,  too,  be 
That  I  should  fulfil  it.     And  I'll  wait  and  see. 


April  28th,  1866. 


SATURDAY. 


I  dreamed  all  the  night  of  my  friend,  and  to-day 
The  carrier  brought  me  a  letter,  to  say 
He  would  be  at  the  L.  about  five  this  P.M. 
So  he's  made  an  appointment  !     That's  something  that  when 
I  wrote  here  last  night  that  he  should  do  sometime 
I  dreamed  not  would  happen  so  soon.     To  my  mind 
That  was  proof  he  was  wishing  to  see  me,  as  he 
Must  have  seen  by  my  note  'twas  a  matter  to  me 
Of  indifference.     So  I  proceeded  to  make 
My  toilet  with  haste,  fearing  I  should  be  late. 


222  STOLEN  WATERS. 

But  I  reached  the  L.  first.     He  came,  soon,  and  we  spent 
A  happy  hour  there  j  then  we  parted,  and  went 
Each  our  separate  way — he  desiring  to  see 
Me  again  very  soon,  and  I  happy  that  he 
Should  have  and  express  such  a  wish. 

He  told  me 
He  sang  at  the  "  old  church  "  last  Sabbath,  and  should 
To-morrow  as  well ;  I  shall  go  up.     It  would 
Seem  indeed  like  old  times  to  see  him  in  the  choir. 
I  go  at  his  wish,  and  my  own  strong  desire  ! 
I  asked  if  he  sat  in  the  "  corner  "  ;  said,  "  yes, 
And  it  was  nice  to  be  there  !  "     Did  thoughts  of  B.  S. 
And  the  sweet  olden  time  make  it  nicer  ?     I  guess 
That  did  not  from  the  charm  very  largely  detract. 
We  did  have,  as  usual,  a  most  pleasant  chat ! 
I  allowed  him  to  hold  my  hand — gloved — in  his  own 
For  quite  a  long  time. 

Ah,  my  heart !  where  has  flown 
Thy  boasted  indifferent  coolness?     The  last 
Test  was  fatal,  I  fear.     Since  we  parted,  I've  passed 
Some  moments  most  wretched ;  but,  weary  to-night, 
I  may  feel  quite  different  in  morning's  clear  light. 


May  1st,  1866. 


TUESDAY. 


Have  been  very  unhappy  for  some  few  days  past, 
And  not  quite  well  either.     On  Sabbath  morn  last, 


8T0LEN  WATERS.  223 

I  went  up  to  church.     I  was  early,  but  he 

Was  there  before  I  was,  and  given  to  me 

Were  his  first  glance  and  smile,  when  he  came  out  to  sing ; 

But  there  by  his  side  was  a  woman  I've  seen 

But  too  often  already,  and  that  I  would  fain 

As  long  as  I  live  behold  never  again — 

Mrs.  D.,  the  soprano,  I  always  disliked. 

We  had  spoken  of  her  on  the  previous  night, 

When  we  met  at  the  L.,  and  he  said  he  had  not 

Even  seen  her  since  she  left  the  choir.     If  I'd  thought 

That  she  would  have  been  there,  I'd  not  gone  one  step. 

She  was,  though,  and  he  must  needs  sit  back,  instead 

Of  his  place  in  the  "  corner.  "     It  made  me,  indeed, 

Most  provoked  and  unhappy ;  though  he  paid  no  heed 

To  her,  and  did  not  stop  to  speak.     But  my  eyes 

With  bitter  tears  filled  many  times ;  so  surprised 

And  so  disappointed  was  I !     I  had  gone 

Not  far  from  the  church  when  he  passed  me,  his  arm 

In  that  of  the  bass-singer.     Marked  pains  he  took 

To  speak  as  he  passed  me.     How  handsome  he  looked ! 

Farther  down,  Mrs.  D.,  sweeping  by  me,  joined  them 

As  they  turned  down  Broadway,  walking  next  him,  though 

then 
He  was  on  the  outside.     That,  indeed,  was  the  last, 
Bicter  drop  in  my  full  cup  of  wormwood.     They  passed 
From  my  sight,  and  I  entered  a  car,  homeward  bound, 
Sad  and  wretched  indeed.     But  that  day  has  torn  down 
Every  barrier  of  coldness,  indifference,  that 
I  had  fancied  was  raised.     Alas  !   'twas,  in  fact, 
Only  fancy,  and  I  am  as  wholly  his  own 
To-day  as  I  ever  was  — his,  his  alone ! 


224  STOLEN  WATERS. 

This  morning,  from  Colonel  Allair,  I  received 
Just  the  nicest  epistle  he  has,  I  believe, 
Ever  written  to  me ;  and  had  no  slight  effect 
In  raising  my  spirits,  and  helping  to  check 
The  sadness  then  weighing  me  down.     I  know  not 
Hardly  what  I  should  now  do  without  him ;  bright  spots 
Are  his  notes  in  my  weary  life.     In  all  respects 
How  unlike  to  my  other  John  is  he,  and  yet 


June  1st,  1866. 


FRIDAY. 


I  went  up  to  church  a  few  Sabbaths  ago. 
My  friend  did  not  sing,  nor  did  Mrs.  D.     So 
There  was  naught  to  disturb  my  devotions.     Relieved 
I  felt,  I  must  own  !     Some  days  since,  I  received 
A  letter  from  him,  and  a  nice  one.     He  writes, 
That  he  came  on  from  Boston  the  previous  night. 
Had  taken  a  cold  most  severe,  and  was  then 
Going  home  for  a  steaming.     He  told  me  that  when 
He  saw  me  up  town  at  church  was  the  last  time 
That  he  sang ;  he  went  down  for  his  car,  and  on  mine 
Saw  me  as  we  passed  each  the  other ;  but  I 
Was  not  looking  that  way.     And  did  he,  by  the  by, 
Surmise  how  I  felt,  and  so  told  me  to  set 
At  rest  all  my  doubts,  and  show  me  he  was  yet 
My  love  and  my  darling?     While  with  Mrs.  D., 
I  imagined  he  was,  he  was  thinking  of  me, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  225 

And  watching  to  see  me  as  I  should  pass  by. 
Oh  !  how  many  times  Fve  been  conscious  that  I 
Have  done  him  indeed  "  gross  injustice !  " 

He  wrote 
He  should  soon  find  occasion  to  see  me,  he  hoped, 
That  we  might  have  a  confab  together.     I  sent 
Him  a  note,  telling  him  that  on  Wednesday  ma  meant 
To  be  absent,  and  asking  if  he  woidd  come  out. 
But  she  did  not  go,  as  it  rained  hard  about 
All  the  morning,  and  neither  did  he  come.     That  day, 
However,  he  wrote  me  a  letter  to  say 
That  he  wanted  to  see  me,  and  thought  that  he  might 
Appoint  Friday,  about  four  p.m.  ;  but  that  night 
I  had  an  engagement,  and  to  that  effect 
I  wrote  him,  of  course  ;  but  with  after  regret 
That  I  had  not  kept  his  appointment.     To-day 
I  fulfilled  my  engagement ;  the  hours  passed  away 
Very  pleasantly,  though  I  of  course  at  the  time 
Could  but  think  that  I  might  been  with  "  Antony  mine," 
If  I  had  not  been  there. 

He's  done  bravely,  of  late, 
Not  only  one,  but  two  appointments  to  make. 
I  wonder  if  there's  a  day  passes  but  he 
Sends  many  a  tender  thought  over  to  me ; 
And  if  musings  of  me  are  both  pleasant  and  sweet, 
And  give  to  him  happiness  lasting  and  deep. 
I  never  shall  know  more  than  now,  I  suppose ; 
He  is  so  reserved,  he  will  never  disclose 
Them  to  me,  or  reveal  me  the  depths  of  his  heart ; 
I  only  can  judge  by  a  passing  remark, 
An  occasional  word.     If  unable  to  read, 
He  must  of  course  think  some,  and  can  he,  indeed, 
10* 


226  STOLEN   WATERS. 

• 

Help  thinking  of  one  much  and  often,  who  so 

Devotedly  loves  him  ?    He  must  care,  I  know, 

A  little  for  me  and  my  letters,  or  he 

Would  not  cling  to  them  so,  and  refuse  utterly 

To  give  them  up  ever.     I  said  the  last  time 

That  I  saw  him,  that  he'd  better  give  me  back  mine, 

Lest  something  should  happen  to  him.     He  refused 

To  do  so,  and  said  they  were  safe.     And  no  use 

To  urge  the  thing  farther,  I  saw  it  would  be. 

He  don't  like  to  own  how  much  he  cares  for  me. 

"  Oh  could  my  fond  ideas  reality  prove, 

And  one  blissful  moment  give  me  all  his  love, 

I  would  for  that  moment  my  life  freely  give, 

And  when  he  ceased  to  love,  I  no  longer  would  live." 


June  6th,  1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

I  hardly  know  when  I  so  happy  have  been, 
And  so  fully  realized  it,  as  within 
The  brief  hours  of  this  swift-flitting  day. 

You  must  knovTj 
My  dear  Journal,  that  some  five  or  six  weeks  ago, 
My  friend  spoke  of  a  series  of  "  Gotham's  wise  men," 
Which  is  now  being  published  ;  and  told  me  that  when 
JETis  picture  was  out — which  it  would  be  then  soon — 
He  would  send  it  to  me.     And  so,  when  this  noon 
The  carrier  brought  me  a  paper,  addressed 
In  the  well-known  handwriting  of  him  I  love  best, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  227 

I  supposed  it  was  that ;  neither  was  I,  indeed, 

Disappointed ;  but,  opening  it  with  all  speed, 

I  found  an  engraving  so  perfect,  it  seemed 

Almost  as  if  he  was  before  me.     Ma  deemed 

It  not  at  all  like  him  ;  but  she  has  not  seen 

Him  in  two  years  or  over,  and  doubtless  forgot 

How  he  looked.     And  that  he  too  has  changed,  it  cannot 

Be  denied.     I  have  marked  it  in  him,  and  it  is 

More  evident  still  in  his  picture.     There  is 

On  his  face  an  expression  entirely  unlike 

What  it  wore  but  three  short  years  ago  ;  then  'twas  bright, 

Smiling,  happy,  and  careless  ;  but  now  there  are  lines, 

And  he  looks  sad  and  anxious.     I  cannot  divine 

The  cause — perhaps  business  cares,  illness,  a  mind 

Or  a  heart  that  is  troubled.     Whatever  it  be, 

He's  the  dearest  of  all  earthly  objects  to  me. 

"  I  ne'er  wake  at  morn,  but  his  name  ever  bounds 

To  my  heart,  the  first  hope  of  the  day.     Ne'er  kneel  down 

At  evening,  but  it  in  my  prayers,  whether  in 

Thought  or  speech,  mingles  too.     If  in  this  I  have  sinned, 

God  forgive  me  !  "  for  I  have  my  punishment  had, 

In  the  "  Consciousness  of  degradation,  the  sad 

Despair  which  a  woman  o'erwhelms,  when  she  dares 

Unwooed,  unrequited  to  love  !  "     Yet  how  fair 

And  precious  to  me  is  my  love  !     All  the  day 

I  have  trembled  with  my  intense  happiness.     Yea, 

My  thoughts  constantly  turned  to  the  fact  that  at  last 

I  have  his  dear  picture  ;  at  each  thought  there  passed 

Through  my  pulses  a  thrill  of  exquisite  delight. 

Notwithstanding  this,  I'm  feeling  sad,  though,  to-night, 

To  think  this  poor  semblance  of  him,  of  the  dear, 

Living,  loving  original's  all  that  I  e'er 


228  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Can  hope  for  possession  of !     Naught  but  a  bit 

Of  flimsy,  insensible  paper.     Those  lips 

Can  yield  no  response  to  my  tender  caress ; 

Those  eyes  cannot  change  from  their  sad  earnestness, 

Or  give  me  e'en  one  glance  of  love.     And  with  this 

I  must  be  content  !     Oh,  my  God  !  but  it  is 

Bitter,  bitter,  this  burden  I  ever  must  bear, 

Of  a  hopeless  and  wasted  affection.     Oh,  there 

Are  times  when  it  seems  it  must  kill  me,  this  weight 

At  my  heart  which  I'm  forced  constant  effort  to  make 

To  keep  back,  and  crush  down,  lest  some  cold,  careless  eye 

Should  sometime  read  the  tale  I  so  zealously  try 

To  conceal.     I'm  yet  young  ;  must  I  go  all  through  life 

With  the  curse  of  unsatisfied  longings  at  strife 

In  my  heart,  blighted  hopes,  and  affection  unsought, 

Unreturned  ?     O !  God  knows  that  against  it  I've  fought 

And  struggled  in  vain !      My  love,  gliding  along 

So  smoothly,  with  naught  to  disturb  the  deep,  strong 

Serenity  of  his  grand  nature,  I'm  sure 

Can't  imagine  what  I  daily  have  to  endure. 

His  picture  is  lying  before  me  !     Each  fine 
Well-cut  feature's  indelibly  stamped  on  my  mind, 
And  impressed  on  my  heart  in  most  deep  burning  lines. 
The  smooth  brow,  and  the  eyes,  so  sweet,  tender,  and  kind  J 
The  full  lips  whose  soft  touch  I  can  never  forget ; 
E'en  the  poise  of  the  head,  the  hair's  careless  and  yet 
Smooth  adjustment ;  the  cut  of  the  beard  and  mustache 
So  familiar — and  all  that  makes  up  the  fine  cast 
Of  form  and  of  feature — are  painted  down  deep 
In  my  heart's  fairest  chamber,  in  colors  soft,  sweet, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  229 

And  eternal.     Yet  ''tis  good  to  have  even  this 
Pictured  semblance  of  him ;  and  I  own,  to  me  'tis 
Indeed  priceless.     While  looking  at  it,  I  can  ne'er 
Forget  that  those  eyes  have  looked  love  ;  that  those  dear 
Lips  have,  with  a  touch  that  no  others  can  e'er 
Resemble,  met  mine  in  love's  pure,  sweet  caress ; 
That  my  cheek  has  against  that  smooth  forehead  been  pressed, 
And  my  head  pillowed  on  that  broad,  true,  tender  breast. 

But  midnight  approaches  !  My  book  I  must  close 
On  the  record  of  this  day,  and  seek  my  repose, 
With  thanks  to  the  destiny  which  has,  at  length, 
The  fulfilment  of  one  of  my  strong  desires  sent. 


August  1st,  I860. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Two  months,  very  nearly,  since  I've  written  here ! 
But  though  I've  been  silent,  it's  not,  Journal  dear, 
Been  because  I've  had  nothing  worth  writing.     Instead, 
The  past  weeks  have  been  ones  of  strong  and  varied 
Emotions. 

I've  heard  people  say  they  could  not 
Keep  a  journal,  because  they  would  never,  they  thought, 
Have  aught  worth  the  writing  ;  their  lives  were  so  tame 
And  quite  uneventful.     I  can't  say  the  same  ! 
If  I  should  write  all  the  events  strongly  marked 
Which  occur  in  my  life,  in  fact  even  a  part, 
'Twould  fill  volumes.     I'm  conscious  my  journal  is  quite 
Incomplete  ;  is  recording  alone,  of  my  life, 


230  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  part  which  is  inner  and  hidden — that  none 

But  myself  ever  sees  ;  that  it,  too,  has  become 

An  escape- valve  for  long-pent  emotion  alone. 

Were  people  to  read  it,  to  me  quite  unknown, 

I  fear  they  would  think  me  a  person  of  one 

Idea — despondent  and  gloomy.     But  though 

I  have  lost  the  extravagant  spirits,  whose  flow 

At  times  was  so  brilliant,  but  three  years  ago, 

Yet  I  often  am  cheerful,  and  lively,  e'en  now 

Though  not  very  gay  ever,  I  will  allow. 

But  I'm  sure,  did  they  know  how  completely  I  hide 

The  grief  which  sometimes  bursts  all  barriers,  they  might 

Their  opinion  of  me  somewhat  change. 

Love,  which  is 
To  some  but  a  sentiment,  mere  transient  bliss, 
Tamely  felt,  tamely  lost,  or  at  pleasure  transferred, 
To  me  is  a  life's  one  "  grand  passion  " — oft  heard 
And  read  of,  but  seldom,  I  think,  known  or  seen. 
But  though  it  pervades  with  its  bitter-sweet  sheen 
Every  fibre  and  pulse  of  my  heart,  yet  it  there 
Abides,  and  is  not  in  my  face  written,  where 
It  by  each  passer-by  may  be  read ;  and  although 
Within  all  my  thoughts  it  may  be,  it  has  no 
Part  or  place  e'er  in  my  conversation. 

Within 
The  interim  since  my  last  writing,  I've  been 
So  happy  as  from  my  love  one  or  two  notes 
To  receive,  and  in  one  of  the  latest  he  wrote 
Mine  had  just  come  to  hand ;  he  expected  to  get 
A  "  grand  scolding  "  from  me,  for  his  recent  neglect 
In  writing ;  he  knew  he  was  negligent  in 
All  his  correspondence  ;  but  that  he  had  been 


STOLEN   WATERS.  231 

Quite  unwell,  and  away  a  great  deal.     At  the  end 
He  writes  that  he  hopes  we  shall  meet  soon,  and  then 
Have  a  long  chat  together.     And  I  hoped  so,  too  !  " 
Then  adds — "  Don't  feel  hard  toward  me,  if  I  do 
Not  write  you  so  often,  or  much  as  you  like  !  " 
He  need  fear  no  "  scolding  "  from  me,  I  replied. 
I  gave  him  my  last  more  than  one  year  ago. 

I  was  surprised,  somewhat,  a  month  since,  or  so, 
At  receiving  a  letter  from  one  with  whom  I 
Once  flirted  a  little,  and  who,  by  the  by, 
At  the  time — about  four  years  ago — sent  to  me 
Some  notes  that  were — well!  very  warm,  certainly! 
I  then  liked  him  much  ;  but  had  not  seen  or  heard 
From  him,  until  then,  since  we  parted,  one  word. 
The  acquaintance  was  closed  amicably  at  the  time, 
By  mutual  consent.     I  was  quite  pleased  to  find 
I  was  not  forgotten  ;  glad  also  to  hear 
From  him  once  again  after  so  many  years. 
The  old  correspondence  he  wished  to  renew ; 
To  this  I  objected,  acceding  unto 
His  desire  the  acquaintance  might  still  continue. 
Between  us  a  few  letters  passed,  and  he  came 
To  see  me,  of  course.     And  he  seemed  just  the  same 
As  in  the  old  time.     Indeed !  I  could  not  see 
As  he'd  changed  in  the  least ;  but  he  told  me  that  he 
Never  saw  such  a  change  as  there  had  been  in  me, 
And  my  letters,  as  well— that,  in  fact,  'twas  more  marked 
In  those  than  it  was  in  myself.     Not  but  what 
They  were  fine,  and  as  finished  as  ever,  he  thought, 
But  seemed  so  much  colder,  more  formal,  and  not 


232  STOLEN  WATERS. 

So  vivacious  and  gay.     I  asked  did  he  think  so, 

And  he  said,  "  I  think  nothing  about  it.     I  know  !  " 

How  shocked  I  one  evening  felt  at  the  receipt 

Of  one  of  his  notes.     "  My  own  dear  Bitter-Sweet !" 

"Was  how  it  commenced  ;  and  I  cannot  describe 

The  feeling  which  passed  o'er  me,  as  I  descried 

Those  words  at  the  head  of  a  letter  from  him. 

The  note  from  my  hand  dropped,  as  if  it  had  been 

A  live  coal  of  fire.     When  I  saw  him  I  asked 

How  he  came  to  write  that ;  and  he  said  in  times  past 

I  signed  one  of  mine  thus  (but  that  was  before 

The  first  to  my  love),  and  he  thought  to  once  more 

Awake  old  emotions  by  using  it  now. 

1  replied  somewhat  bitterly,  I  must  allow, 

That  it  called  up  emotions  entirely  unlike 

"What  he'd  anticipated.     And  he  did  not  write 

Another  addressed  in  that  way.     I  had  liked 

Him  always,  as  I  said  before  ;  and  awhile — 

Shall  I  own  it  ? — attempted  myself  to  beguile 

With  dreams  of  the  possible  chance  of  my  heart 

Being  "  caught  in  rebound,"  and  transferring  a  part 

Of  my  wasted  affections  to  him.     He  came,  too, 

Just  at  the  right  time  ;  when  I  was,  it  is  true, 

"With  the  old  love  disgusted  and  weary,  its  place 

Supplying,  indeed,  better,  for  a  brief  space, 

Than  I  had  deemed  possible.     But  the  dream  soon 

Was  dispelled ;  for  the  old  intimacy  resumed 

Showed  me,  also,  that  I  had  changed  ;  how  much  he 

To  my  love  was  inferior,  proving  to  me 

How  impossible  'twas  he  should  e'er  satisfy 

The  cravings  of  heart,  or  of  mind,  or  supply 


STOLEN   WATERS.  233 

The  place  by  my  darling  left  vacant,  and  brought 

Me  back  to  the  old  sweet  allegiance.     I  thought 

That  mere  strangers  'twas  best  we  should  be,  as  before, 

And  took  measures  accordingly.     Yet,  I  was  more 

Disappointed  than  I  can  express,  to  again 

Find  my  hopes  for  a  new  state  of  things  blighted.     Then 

"With  that  came  despondency,  even  more  deep 

Than  usual.     Yesterday,  wretched  indeed 

Was  I ;  and  I  felt  like  excluding  myself 

From  society  wholly,  and  breaking,  as  well, 

All  my  correspondence — in  future  within 

Myself  live  entirely  ;  to-day  to  begin 

The  new  life.    But  I  slept  o'er  it,  and,  as  the  morn 

In  roseate  splendor  from  darkness  is  born, 

So  to  yesterday's  night  so  profound,  gloom  so  deep, 

Succeeds  to-day's  glorious  sunshine. 

To  keep 
This  p.m.  with  my  love,  an  appointment,  went  in. 
I  was  late,  altho'  he  was  still  later.    I'd  been 
There  some  time,  and  was  just  about  leaving,  when  he 
At  length  came  in.    His  partner  was  out,  he  told  me, 
And  he  waited  for  him  'till  six  nearly,  and  then 
Left  at  once.    We  stayed  there  for  awhile,  and  then  went 
For  a  walk.     By  the  way,  he  to-day  spoke  again 
About  seeing  me  in  the  car  that  day  when 
I  was  coming  from  church,  when  he  sang  the  last  time  J 
And  .said  his  surprise  was  not  much  less  than  mine 
At  Mrs.  D.  singing  that  morning.     He  bade 
Me  farewell  somewhat  hastily,  as  his  car  had 
Already  passed  fey  ;  bending  low  o'er  my  hand, 
With  a  grace  all  his  own,  and  a  tenderness  grand 


234  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  simple  as  well,  he  pressed  it  in  both 

Of  his,  with  a  lingering  warmth,  as  if  loath 

To  release  it,  then  said  he'd  soon  see  me  again, 

And  was  gone.     But  there  was  such  a  difference  when. 

He  was  with  me  to-day,  in  his  manner,  from  what 

There  was  ever  before — an  air  which  I  cannot 

Describe,  but  that  I  perceived  plainly.     A  free 

Familiar  regard  in  his  bearing  to  me, 

Entirely  unusual;  and  never  did  I, 

His  friendship  appreciate  more.     He's  seen  my 

Worst  qualities,  surely,  and  yet  is  "  still  true," 

Notwithstanding,  too,  all  I  have  done  or  can  do. 


August  17th,  1866. 

FRIDAY. 

I  did  not,  I  think,  say,  when  writing  here  last, 
There'd  a  much  longer  season  than  usual  elapsed 
Since  from  Colonel  Allair  I'd  a  letter  received. 
But  though  thinking  it  strange,  his  not  writing,  believe 
There  was  a  good  reason,  and  that  his  delay 
Was  compulsory.     Two  weeks  ago  yesterday, 
The  wished-for  epistle  arrived.     I  was  much 
Pleased,  indeed,  upon  opening  it,  to  find  such 
A  long  letter,  and  thought  that  its  kindly  contents 
Its  late  coming  would  amply  compensate.     Intent 
On  this  thought,  I  glanced  first  at  the  close,  then  again 
To  the  head,  and,  all  being  as  usual,  I  then 


STOLEN  WATERS.  235 

Prepared  with  much  pleasure  to  read  it ;  but  down 

The  first  page  I  had  not  far  perused,  ere  I  found 

There  was  a  great  change.     It  was  even  more  fond 

Than  his  letters  in  general,  yet  he  goes  on 

To  say — while  expressing  unbounded  regret 

That  it  should  be  so,  that  he  thinks  'twould  be  best 

To  close  our  correspondence — the  reason  expressed 

Being  his  strong  desire  for  a  sweet  retrospect, 

And  his  fears,  if  continued,  between  us  there  might 

Come  something  to  render  the  mem'ry  less  bright 

And  pleasing  than  now.     I  might  think  this  to  be 

Inconsistent,  perhaps,  with  what  hitherto  he 

Had  written  ;  he'd  then  thought  to  leave  it  to  fate, 

But  now  feared  to  do  so  ;  he  knew  it  would  take 

From  his  life  its  sweet  charm — would  be  parting,  in  truth, 

With  a  piece  of  his  heart.     His  pen  almost  refused 

To  transcribe  the  words — much  like  that  in  effect. 

Hoped  that  some  time  it  might  be  renewed  upon  yet 

More  agreeable  terms  ;  should  he  e'er  visit  me, 

He  trusted  a  most  welcome  guest  he  should  be. 

But  if,  before  then,  the  time  should  be  so  long, 

His  desire  to  hear  from  me  sufficiently  strong 

To  his  silence  o'ercome,  begged  permission  to  write, 

Granting  me,  too,  the  same ;  said  he  hoped  that  he  might 

Be  alWwed  to  retain  still  my  letters,  as  they 

Were  dear  unto  him  ;  I  might  do  the  same  way 

With  his,  or  aught  else  that  I  liked. 

I  read  on 
To  the  end  of  the  fond,  cruel  letter,  though  long 
Before  I  had  finished  tears  blinded  my  eyes  ; 
And  I'd  reached  my  room,  scarcely,  ere  sobs  hard  and  dry 


236 


STOLEN  WATERS. 


In  volumes  broke  forth  ;  neither  could  I  control 
Myself  in  the  least.     'Twas  so  sudden,  the  whole 
So  quite  unexpected !     I  ne'er  was  so  grieved 
In  my  life !     So  entirely  I'd  trusted,  believed 
In  his  truth,  never  doubting  him  once.     I  felt  there 
Was  for  me  nothing  but  disappointment,  despair ! 

Loving  with  supreme  ardor  all  those  whom  I  care 
In  the  least  for,  I'm  constantly  wounded.     Oh !  would 
That  I  were  less  extreme ;  that,  like  others,  I  could 
Sometimes  keep  a  medium  course.     I  expect 
Never  happiness  lasting ;  in  every  respect 
My  organization's  too  sensitive,  quite. 
I  feel  everything  too  acutely— delight 
And  sorrow  as  well.     I  am  one  of  those  who 
Desire,  above  all  things,  affection ;  and,  too, 
Manifested,  not  unexpressed  love — to  whom  that 
Is  the  only  thing  worth  bearing  life  for,  in  fact, 
And  yet  are  too  proud  e'er  to  make  manifest 
Their  desire  for  the  love  which  they  wish  to  possess ; 
Too  reticent  any  endeavor  to  make 
To  win  the  affection  they  constantly  crave, 
By  showing  to  others  the  same.     But  yet  I 
Cannot  endure  always  in  silence ;  and  try 
As  I  may  to  keep  down  all  emotion,  I  must 
Give  way  to  grief  sometimes.     And  having  so  much 
Disappointment  of  late,  which  I'd  swallowed  and  kept 
Out  of  sight,  this  last  hard,  unexpected  blow  swept 
Aside  every  atom  of  my  self-control. 
And  in  my  despair,  and  abandon,  the  whole 
I  would  have  avowed — misplaced  love,  wounded  pride, 
Slighted  friendship,  and  all,  howe'er  humbling  it  might 


STOLEN  WATERS.  237 

Be  to  me.     But  with  my  self-command  once  regained, 
Grief  exhausted,  accustomed  reserve  again  came, 
And  I  crushed  it  all  down  in  my  heart,  buried  deep 
From  all  human  sight,  and  of  sympathy's  sweet 
Consolation  deprived.     But  this  kept  me  prostrate 
The  whole  day,  and  I  did  not  go  down  until  late  ; 
And  with  eyes  then  so  swollen  I  scarcely  could  see, 
Throbbing  temples,  and  sad,  aching  heart.     Up  to  me 
Ma  and  Fannie  had  both  been,  and  anxious  to  know 
The  cause  of  my  grief,  but  I  begged  them  to  go 
And  leave  me  alone.     And  so,  when  I  that  eve 
Went  down,  I  took  with  me  the  letter  to  leave 
With  them  if  they  wished.     With  true  delicacy, 
Neither  mentioned  the  subject. 

The  colonel  wished  me 
To  write  in  reply,  and  I  did  so.     To-day 
I  an  answer  received,  and  it  was,  I  must  say, 
A  fine  letter  indeed  ;  and  he  said  he  had  thought 
Many  times  that  our  long  correspondence  could  naught 
But  a  bore  be  to  me.     In  its  closing,  the  loss 
Would  be  wholly  on  his  side,  and  so  that  it  was 
On  my  account,  merely,  he  wrote  as  he  did. 
At  last  owning,  what  I  had  half  suspected, 
The  cause  was  my  writing  about  the  renewed 
Intel-course  with  my  old  friend  (I  spoke  of  to  you, 
In  my  last  record  here,  my  dear  Journal).     Of  that 
I  wrote  him,  as  I  anything  else  do,  in  fact, 
Which  interests  me,  never  dreaming  that  it 
Would  have  such  effect  upon  him,  I  admit. 
He  begged  me  to  answer,  and  said  he  should  write 
Again  in  the  interim.     So  we,  to-night, 
Are  just  as  good  friends  as  before. 


238  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I'm  perplexed 
To  discover  what  fate  has  in  store  for  me  next. 


October  3d,  1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

I  have  from  my  love  received  two  or  three  notes, 
In  the  interval  which  has  occurred  since  I  wrote. 
And  one  which  he  sent  me  I  did  not  receive, 
Much  to  my  regret.     He  addressed,  I  believe, 
To  the  office,  and  so  it  was  lost.     But  how  glad 
I  was,  when  to-day  I  another  one  had, 
And  such  as  he  never  has  sent  me  before. 
My  love  and  forbearance  the  last  year  or  more 
Have  not  been  in  vain;  and  he  loves  me  to-day, 
And  trusts,  and  respects  me  much  more,  I  dare  say, 
Than  if  anger  and  sarcasm  I'd  not  repressed. 
Commenced  as  in  general :  "  My  dear  B.  S." 
And  said  that  upon  the  receipt  of  my  last 
He  could  not  but  blame  himself  that  there  had  passed 
Such  an  interval  since  he  had  written  to  me ; 
But  had  been  away  most  of  the  time.     And  so  he 
Feels,  it  seems,  his  shortcomings,  now  I  utter  no 
Reproaches ;  but  when  I  found  fault  with  him  so, 
He'd  make  no  acknowledgments.     I'm  indeed  glad, 
For  my  sake,  as  well  as  his,  too,  that  I  had 
Resolved  to  write  no  more  cross  letters,  and  my 
Resolution  have  kept.     Farther  on  he  writes — 

"I 
Can  but  say  that  it  is  real  pleasure  to  read 
Your  letters  :  they're  so  entertaining,  indeed, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  239 

So  loving,  and  seem  to  come  right  from  the  heart." 

How  delighted  I  was  at  this  earnest  remark ! 

I  have  many  times  felt,  that,  instead  of  to  him 

Giving  pleasure,  they  must  very  often  have  been 

A  source  of  annoyance ;  and  though  they  could  be — 

Such  feelings — btit  bitterly  humbling  to  me, 

I  still  sent  them  on,  with  faint  hopes  that  I  might 

In  answer  a  few  lines  receive,  did  he  write, 

Indeed,  never  so  coldly  and  formal.     But  now 

I  have  my  reward ;  for  my  darling  avows 

They  do  give  him  pleasure,  and  I've  learned  at  length 

That  he  never  says  what  is  not  fully  meant ; 

The  confession,  beside,  half  unwillingly  seems 

To  have  come,  and  which  double  force  gives  it.     I  deem 

That  our  correspondence,  at  last,  has  become 

On  a  basis  established  more  pleasant  and  firm 

Than  it  has  been  of  late.     In  my  last,  I  a  kiss 

Sent  to  him  and  to  "  Bertie  "  (the  baby,  that  is), 

Telling  him  to  be  sure  and  deliver  it.     So 

He  writes  me  in  answer  : 

"  The  kiss,  which  you  know 
You  sent  in  your  letter  a  few  days  ago, 
Was  duly  delivered  to  Bertie  ;  but,  bless 
His  innocent  soul,  from  whence  came  the  caress 
He  indeed  little  knew." 

Since  this  note  I  received, 
How  many  times  I've  fancied  him,  just  at  eve, 
After  his  return  home,  clasping  close  in  his  arms 
The  beautiful  child,  pressing  on  his  soft,  warm, 
Baby  lips,  a  fond  kiss  from  lips  none  the  less  sweet, 
With  thoughts  of  the  love  for  him,  boundless  and  deep, 


240  STOLEN   WATERS. 

Which  had  sent  the  caress  to  the  unconscious  boy — 

The  love  for  him,  which  would  rejoice  in  his  joy, 

And  grieve  at  his  sorrow,  and  which  renders  dear 

All  the  objects  of  his  deep  affection.     When  here, 

A  few  days  ago,  Lorette  asked  me  if  I 

Had  never  desired  that  the  woman  would  die, 

Who  stands  between  me  and  the  man  that  I  love. 

But  though  loving  him  with  a  passion  above 

And  beyond  estimation,  I  thank  God  I've  been 

From  that  temptation  spared  ;  that  it  has  not  within 

My  mind  for  a  moment  e'en  once  had  a  place. 

I  love  him  too  well  to  desire  to  efface 

From  his  heart  or  his  home  what  she  is,  or  had  ought 

Unto  him  and  his  children  to  be.     I  do  not 

Like  to  see  them  together,  or  think,  I  must  own, 

Of  them  in  the  close  intimacy  of  home — 

The  relation  existing  between  them.     But  those 

Thoughts  but  make  me  unhappy,  and  never  dispose 

Me  to  feel  hard  or  bitter  to  her  or  to  him. 

Of  course,  very  different,  though,  it  might  been, 

If  he  had  not  married  until  I  had  seen 

And  loved  him — and  harder  to  bear,  too,  I  ween! 

But  I  now  can  but  feel  that  no  censure  is  due 

Anywhere  ;  but  the  cruel  stroke  was,  it  is  true, 

Unavoidable.     Closing,  he  says — 

"  Did  you  know 
That  I  sang  at  the  old  church  a  few  weeks  ago, 
For  a  single  day  merely  ?     I'd  sent  you  the  wof  d 
Had  it  not  been  too  late  to  do  so,  when  I  heard 
I  was  wanted  to  sing.     It  did  seem  like  old  times !  " 
And  so  his  thoughts  sometimes  turn  to  sweet  "  Auld  lang 
syne." 


STOLEN  WATERS.  241 

How  can  I  help  thinking  he  does  care  for  me ! 

That  I  am  dear  to  him,  in  some  little  degree ! 

His  manner  was  always  most  tender  and  kind, 

And  perhaps  it  may  be  a  fault  wholly  of  mine, 

That  so  brief,  cold,  reserved,  his  notes  ever  have  been ; 

I've  been  cross  and  unreasonable  often  with  him, 

And,  dear  as  he  is,  from  him  I  could  not  bear 

What  he's  taken  from  me.     But  in  utter  despair, 

So  wretched,  and  chafing  so  under  my  bonds, 

I  sent  letters  sarcastic  and  bitter,  when  fond 

And  gentle  ones  would  have  been  better.     But  past 

Are  those  days,  forever,  I  trust. 

In  the  last 
Of  the  colonel's  nice  letters,  in  one  place  he  says — 
"  What  a  blessed  thing  'tis  a  true  friend  to  possess ! 
I  do  not  know  what  without  you  I  should  do  ; 
I  think  sometimes  my  '  guardian  angel '  are  you, 
If  such  things  can  be  ;  and  I  know  that  I  owe 
To  your  influence  all  that  I  am." 

And  if  so, 
If  I  some  slight  benefit  may  to  him  be, 
I  shall  not  have  lived  vainly.     My  life  seems  to  me 
Such  a  failure,  so  wasted  and  weary,  in  it 
So  much  disappointment  and  grief,  I  admit 
I  am  thankful  if  there's  even  one  that  can  say 
They  are  better  for  my  having  lived. 

Well!  to-day 
Our  pastor  called  here  and  I  gave  my  consent, 
Though  not  willingly,  very,  to  make  an  attempt 
At  teaching  a  Sabbath-school  class.     I  may  like 
When  accustomed  to  it,  but  was  fearful  I  might 
11 


a 


242  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Find  it  irksome  to  feel  that  I  always  must  go — 

As  I  certainly  should — if  I  wished  to  or  no  ; 

Nor  do  I  feel  competent  either ;  and  so 

I  fain  would  refused ;  but  he  would  take  from  me 

Nothing  but  a  consent.     I  do  like  to  be  free ! 

Don't  like  to  feel  ever  the  meaning  of  that 

One  little  word  "  must.''''     I  suppose  that,  in  fact, 

Is  why  I  have  fretted  so  under  the  chains 

I  have  worn  for  three  years — years  so  brimful  of  change. 

"  From  even  love's  rosy  bonds  I  would  be  free  !  " 

And  yet  it  a  glorious  thing  seems  to  me, 

To  feel  one  has  such  capabilities  in 

One's  nature  for  loving ;  though  it  may  have  been 

Undesired,  unrewarded.     And  is  not  that,  still, 

Love  the  noblest  of  all  ?     Nearly  every  heart  will 

Respond  to  another's  deep  passion,  but  few 

Will  dare  to  love  where  there  is  no  hope,  and,  too, 

Love  on  whate'er  come.     Such  affection  is  true  ! 


October  24th,  18G6. 


WEDNESDAY. 


Was  in  town  some  days  since,  and  called  twice  at  the 
. store. 
But  he  was  not  in.     For  the  past  week  or  more, 
I  have  many  times  felt  that  I  must,  must  see  him, 
And  for  one  fond  caress  I  have  really  been 
Almost  longing ;  have  no  hopes  of  having  it,  though, 
As  we  ne'er  meet  alone.     I  try  not  to  feel  so, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  243 

To  think  of  it  even ;  but  out  of  my  mind 

I  can't  always  drive  it.     My  heart  is,  at  times, 

So  hungry  for  some  of  love's  sweets  ;  and  I  get 

Not  much  but  its  bitterness,  pain,  and  regret. 

I  oft  think  of  the  time  when  I  used  to  see  him 

Every  Sabbath,  receive  in  the  brief  interim 

An  occasional  visit  from  him,  which  gave  me 

Such  unalloyed  pleasure.     I  wonder  if  he 

"  Would  care  if  his  breast  was  my  shelter  as  then, 

And  if  he  were  here,  would  ho  kiss  me  again  !  " 

"Well,  my  dear  sister  Fannie,  who  came  home  with  me 
From  Boston  last  spring,  will  return  soon,  and  she 
Insists  upon  taking  me  with  her.     But  I 
Am  not  wishing  to  go,  as  pa — who,  by  the  by, 
Returned  some  months  since — seems  determined  to  move 
Out  of  town  in  the  spring,  so  I  fear  this  will  prove 
Our  last  winter  in  B. ;  but  much  as  I  dislike 
To  go,  I  can't  seem  to  avoid  it.     Fan  quite 
Overrules  each  objection  I  offer,  and  so 
I've  at  length  with  reluctance  consented  to  go. 
I  suppose  'tis  one  more  phase  of  destiny  ;  seems 
To  me  nothing  less.     I,  of  course,  cannot  dream 
What  might  occur  should  I  not  go.     I  have  done 
With  struggling  'gainst  fate  ;  and  that  'tis  but  a  turn 
Of  her  wheel  which  to  Boston  this  winter  sends  me, 
I  indeed  can  but  think.     I've  no  wish  there  to  be, 
Had  no  hand  in  the  matter,  and  bound  so  I  am 
By  a  tissue  of  circumstances,  that  I  can 
Do  nothing  but  go.     Of  it  Colonel  Allair 
In  his  last  writes,  that  I  may  be  going  to  there 


244  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Meet  my  "  destiny."     Truly  !  I  may,  or  my  death, 
There  is  but  One  knows.     So  I've  only  to  let 
Events  take  their  course  and  submit  with  what  grace 
I  can,  to  whatever  may  come,  and  erase 
From  my  heart  every  murmur,  as  far  as  I  may. 
But  yet,  when  I  feel  as  I  have  done  to-day, 
It  seems  as  if  I  could  not  go.     I  would  like, 
Above  all  things,  one  day's  perfect  quiet,  and  quite 
Out  the  question  in  Fannie's  home  that  is. 

A  note 
To  my  friend,  telling  him  I  was  going,  I  wrote 
Some  days  since ;  and  I  made  an  appointment,  also, 
For  the  eve  of  to-morrow  ;  have  yet  received  no 
Reply  as  I  hoped.     In  the  morning  may,  though. 


November  4:lh}  1866. 


SUNDAY. 


'Twould  a  volume  require  to  write  down  here  to-night 
What  I  wish  to.     My  time,  though,  is  limited  quite, 
And  I  must  condense  in  a  somewhat  small  space, 
The  record  of  what  the  past  three  or  four  days 
Has  occurred.     The  day  after  I  wrote  last,  from  him 
No  letter  receiving,  I  did  not  go  in. 
But  Fannie  deciding  to  go  home  somewhat 
In  advance  of  our  former  expectancy,  thought 
I  would  write  him  once  more — which  I  did,  saying  that 
Tuesday  eve  was  the  last  I  could  meet  him.     In  fact, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  245 

I  wrote  rather  coolly,  and  felt  somewhat  vexed 

That  he  had  not  answered  my  last.     On  the  next 

Day  but  one  I  received  his  reply,  which  was  quite 

Satisfactory,  and,  just  as  much  true  delight 

Afforded  to  me  as  the  last  one  he  sent. 

My  other  he  said  was  received,  and  he  meant 

To  have  written  the  following  day ;   but  he  went 

That  eve  to  the  theatre,  and,  coming  home, 

Took  cold ;  had  been  sick  ever  since.     I  might  known 

There  was  cause  for  delay.     I  distrust  him  each  time 

That  he  disappoints  me,  and  I  yet  always  find 

That  he  is  not  in  fault.     I  shall  learn,  by  and  by, 

To  trust  him,  I  hope — learn  his  truth  to  descry. 

He  wrote  he  regretted  extremely  that  I 

Should  have  been  disappointed  on  Thursday,  but  still, 

It  could  not  be  helped,  and  then  adds  that  he  will 

Be  there,  if  he's  living  and  well,  Tuesday  eve. 

Should  expect  me  to  write  to  him,  after  I  leave, 

He  says  near  the  close.     His  letter  was  long, 

For  his ;  truly  kind,  and  in  fact  almost  fond, 

And  gave  me  a  feeling  of  perfect  content  / 

An  unusual  delight,  and  not  even  yet  spent. 

On  Tuesday  it  rained,  so  I  did  not  go  in. 
I  knew  not  but  that  the  appointment  by  him 
Would  be  kept.     I  that  day  was  not  well  enough,  though, 
To  have  gone,  had  the  weather  been  pleasant.     And  so 
I  wrote  him  I  should  not  leave  town  'till  this  week, 
And  Thursday,  about  six  p.m.,  I  would  meet 
My  friend  at  the  L.     I  intended,  that  day, 
To  leave  home  in  season  to  stop  on  the  way 


246  STOLEN  WATERS. 

At  his  place  ;  but  being  delayed,  I  did  not 

Reach  the  L.  until  two  minutes  past  six  o'clock ; 

And  five  minutes  later  my  love  was  with  me. 

I  was  going  up  town  for  the  night,  and  so  we 

Did  not  stay  there.     A  carriage  was  waiting,  which  he 

Then  placed  me  within.     'Twas  a  beautiful  night. 

We  drove  part  the  distance,  and  then  thought  it  might 

Be  pleasanter  still  to  be  walking — so  then 

At  once  put  our  thought  into  practice  ;  and  when 

From  the  carriage  he  Lifted  me,  close  in  his  arms 

For  a  moment  he  held  me,  and  then  pressed  a  warm 

But  somewhat  hasty  kiss  on  my  cheek — the  first  one 

I  have  had  from  his  lips  for  three  years.     We  walked  on, 

Going  out  of  our  way  a  short  distance  to  pass 

The  "  old  church,"  so  endeared  to  us  both  ;  thinking,  as 

We  in  silence  leaned  o'er  the  low  paling  of  iron 

Enclosing  the  well-laid  out  grounds,  of  the  time 

When  "  Love's  first  dream "  began.      And  when  turning 

away, 
He  said  'twas  the  nicest  church,  he  could  but  say, 
That  he  ever  was  in ;  and  'twas  so  cosey,  too, 
In  the  choir.     I  said,  "  Yes  ;  it  was  pleasant  when  you 
Used  to  sit  in  the  '  corner,'  but  was  not  so  nice 
When  you  next  Mrs.  D.  took  your  seat !  " 

He  replies : 
"  Oh,  but  I  in  the  l  corner  '  almost  always  sat !  " 
Up  the  avenue  walking,  I  said  to  him,  that 
If  he  wished  on  my  ring  it  should  not  be  removed 
While  I  remained  absent.     "  What !  over  your  glove  ?  " 
He  inquired.     But  I  had  none  on  that  hand — the  one 
He  was  holding — so  said  he  would  take  off  his  own. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  247 

And  while  drawing  it  off,  he  between  his  dear  lips 

Placed  my  ring,  and  then  slipping  it  on,  with  a  kiss 

Sealed  his  wishes  for  me ;  and  the  rest  of  the  time 

In  his  warm,  ungloved  hand  with  fond  clasp  he  held  mine. 

To  hear  Madame  Ristori  was  going  that  eve, 

And  said  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  leave 

That  night,  as  some  friends  on  from  Boston  were  in 

At  the  store  when  he  left,  and  would  not  excuse  him, 

But  he  told  them  he  must  go,  agreed  to  meet  them 

Between  seven  and  eight  at  the  theatre,  then 

Left  in  haste.     And  he  said  he  came  up  to  the  L. 

When  we  made  the  appointment  for  Tuesday,  as  well. 

And  thought,  though  it  did  rain,  that  I  would  be  in 

As  I  left  town  so  soon ;  and  that  I'd  accused  him 

So  often  of  breaking  engagements,  he  meant 

To  keep  that  one,  if  through  fire  and  water  he  went. 

And  he  did  go  through  water  indeed,  for  it  poured. 

Said  he  sang  the  last  Sabbath  in  church,  but  the  word 

Again  did  not  get  until  too  late  to  send 

Out  to  me,  but  should  sing  the  next  Sunday  again, 

(That's  to-day),  and  of  course  I  consented  to  go. 

'Twas  not  at  our  church  that  he  sang,  he  said,  though, 

But  at  an  Episcopal  on  the  same  street. 

Many  times  he  regretted  that  his  "  Bitter-Sweet " 

Was  not  there  when  he  sang  at  the  old  church. 

When  we 
Reached  Annie's — where  I  was  to  stop — he  wished  me 
To  walk  on  a  short  distance.     Of  course  I  was  glad 
To  comply,  although  then  barely  time  he  would  had 
To  keep  his  engagement  with  promptness.     But  that 
Was  nothing  to  me,  if  he  felt  satisfied. 
We  were  on  the  same  street  where  I  used  to  reside, 


248  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  stood  on  a  corner  quite  near  my  old  home 

For  some  little  time ;  and  it  was  sweet,  I  own, 

To  stand  with  my  hand  clasped  in  his,  and  the  tone.*} 

Of  his  exquisite  voice  falling  soft  on  my  ear. 

Sweet  the  stolen  embrace  when  no  person  was  near, 

The  petting  so  longed  for,  the  perfect  content 

Which  his  mere  presence  gave  me,  the  pure  joy  that  sent 

Every  thought  but  of  happiness  out  of  my  heart, 

Though  I  knew  time  was  flying,  and  soon  we  must  part. 

He  was  all  the  eve  so  affectionate,  kind  ; 

He  called  me  "  dear  "  once,  and  by  name  many  times. 

Though  never  addressing  me  by  it  before, 

It  could  not  have  come  from  his  lips  now  with  more 

Ease  and  natural  readiness,  if  it  had  been 

Eor  long,  a  familiar  "  household  word  "  with  him. 

Very  pretty  he  speaks  it,  more  as  a  caress 

Than  anything  else,  and  it  sounds,  I  confess, 

Very  sweet  from  his  lips. 

He  has  never  appeared 
So  tender  and  loving,  and  never  so  clear 
And  manifest  was  his  attachment.     Although 
Always  kind,  he  was  then  more  than  usually  so. 
More  reason  to  think  I  am  dear  to  him,  he 
Never  gave  me.     Indeed  !   I  am  sure  he  loves  me. 
At  least  next  to  her,  who  in  his  heart  claims 
The  first  place.     And  am  I  contented  to  reign 
As  second  within  a  divided  heart  ?     One 
Who  has  often  declared  she  would  have  all,  or  none, 
Is  with  this  satisfied  ?     Yes  !  far  better  a  part, 
A  moiety  of  his,  than  another's  whole  heart ! 

He  spoke  many  times  of  my  writing  to  him. 
"  You'll  write  me  when  Boston  you  shall  arrive  in," 


STOLEN  WATERS,  249 

Was  the  last  thing  he  said.     It  was  past  eight  o'clock 
When  again  we  before  my  friend's  residence  stopped. 
Then  taking  my  hands,  both  of  them,  in  his  own, 
Left  a  kiss  of  farewell  on  my  lips  and  was  gone. 
I  fancy  his  friends  tired  of  waiting,  ere  he 
The  theatre  reached. 

Well !  the  evening,  to  me, 
Was  perfect !     My  love  every  want  satisfies  ; 
For  the  void  in  my  heart  sweet  content  he  supplies, 
Until  it  overflows  with  a  love  so  entire, 
So  sacred,  and  pure,  passion  can  but  expire, 
So  sweet  I  ignore  all  the  pain  gone  before. 
While  I  drank  in  the  joy  which  his  presence  affords, 
What  wonder  I  should  for  a  moment  forget 
That  I  "  stolen  waters  "  was  qiiaffing  !     And  yet, 
Is  a  love  pure  as  mine  such  a  deep,  deadly  sin, 
And  a  crime  each  impassioned  expression  ?     There's  been 
Very  much  to  regret,  and  repent  of — lose  sight 
Of  the  wrong,  or  excuse  it,  I  do  not — it  might, 
However,  be  worse  /  and  to  One,  who,  if  just, 
Is  loving  and  pitiful  also,  I'll  trust 
The  sin  and  its  punishment,  knowing  that  He 
Looks  alone  on  the  heart,  each  temptation  can  see, 
Whether  conquered  or  yielded  to.     Once  having  worn 
Our  humanity,  been  by  fierce  temptations  torn, 
He  knows  how  to  succor,  to  pity,  forgive  ; 
To  His  love  and  compassion  the  issue  I  leave. 

This  morning  was  fair,  so  of  course  went  up  town 
To  church,  as  I  promised.     Was  early,  and  found 
He  had  not  yet  arrived  ;  but  the  sexton  gave  me, 
As  requested,  a  seat  near  the  choir ;  and  when  he 
11* 


250  STOLEN   WATERS. 

Soon  after  came  in,  his  face  plainly  betrayed 

His  pleasure  at  seeing  me.     lie  sang  to-day, 

Divinely,  as  ever !  his  voice  seemed  in  truth 

The  impressive  Episcopal  service  to  suit, 

And  lost  none  of  its  richness  and  beauty,  when  in 

The  elaborate  "  Te  Deum"  heard.     I  had  been 

So  proud  of  him,  had  we  but  met  ere  it  came 

To  be  sin  he  should  love  me — had  I  borne  his  name. 

When  service  was  over,  I  had  not  gone  far 

Ere  he  joined  me.     Together  we  waited  for  cars. 

He  said  the  last  Sabbath  "  My  Lady  "  was  down, 

But  to-day  it  was  too  late  to  come,  when  she  found 

He  intended  to  sing — I  presume  no  design 

There  was  in  his  failing  to  tell  her  in  time  (?). 

I  spoke  of  his  being  so  late  Thursday  night, 

Ere  he  kept  his  engagement ;  he  said  yes,  'twas  quite 

Ten  o'clock  ere  he  entered  the  theatre.     When 

He  first  left  the  car,  about  nine,  he  missed  then, 

For  the  first  time,  a  valuable  diamond  ring:. 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  recollecting 

That  he  drew  off  his  glove  where  we  stood  a  long  time 

Conversing,  he  took  a  car  back  ;  failed  to  find 

What  he  sought,  so  he  borrowed  a  lantern  near  by — 

Turned  away  unsuccessful  again,  when  his  eye 

Was  caught  by  the  glitter.     Indeed !  he,  I  think, 

Was  most  fortunate.    It  was  a  beautiful  ring, 

One  his  wife  ordinarily  wears. 

So,  I  ween, 
For  the  last  time  for  many  long  months,  I  have  seen 
My  love,  and  my  dearest !     I  go,  though,  away, 
Feeling  sure  of  his  truth  and  affection.     All  day 


STOLEN  WATERS.  251 

I  have  thought  of  a  poem,  expressing  indeed 

With  perfectness  my  feelings  to  him.     Thus'  it  reads : 

"  What  are  my  thoughts  of  thee  ? 
Ah,  most  serene  and  calm  !     Amid  the  din, 
The  stir,  and  tumult  of  the  busy  crowd, 
Like  birds  from  far,  they  softly  flutter  in, 
And  breathe  to  me  thy  name,  but  not  aloud. 
I  hear  some  voice  with  mvisic  like  thy  tone, 
And  start  to  know  that  I  am  not  alone — 
I  look  amid  them  all,  if  I  may  trace 
Thy  glance,  thy  smile,  thy  form's  familiar  grace — 
And  by  the  sudden  flutter  of  my  heart, 
I  know,  my  love,  we  are  not  far  apart. 

"  What  are  my  thoughts  of  thee  ? 
All  pure  and  fair,  yet  passionately  sweet. 
Moonlight  and  starlight  whisper  still  of  thee. 
I  breathe  thy  name,  and  o'er  and  o'er  repeat 
The  words  thou  said'st  beneath  the  whispering  tree. 
Again  'neath  Winter's  moonlight  skies  we  stand, 
I  feel  in  mine  the  pressure  of  thy  hand — 
And  words  that  touched  my  soul  with  sudden  thrill 
Are  murmured  o'er  by  lingering  memories  still. 
And  though  our  paths  must  part,  'tis  sweet  to  know 
Blest  thoughts  of  thee  are  mine  where'er  I  go — 
Sweeter  to  know  that  with  no  vain  regret, 
We  shall  recall  the  hour  when  first  we  met." 

It  does  seem  so  strange  that  we,  after  three  vears 
Of  misunderstandings,  heart-burnings,  and  tears, 
Should  stand  on  the  footing  we  now  do ;  and  that 
Our  long  correspondence,  which  has  been  in  fact 


252  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Irregular,  sparring,  unpleasant — at  length, 
All  jarrings  at  end — we,  by  mutual  consent, 
With  mutual  pleasure,  propose  to  renew, 
On  a  basis  of  confidence,  knowledge,  and  true 
Respect  and  affection,  that  neither  could  know 
At  its  fatal  beginning,  just  three  years  ago. 
I  have  much  injustice  done  him  in  the  past, 
But  I'm  glad  I  can  truthfully  say,  that  at  last 
My  confidence  in  him  is  perfect,  entire  ! 

I  find,  looking  back  for  a  year,  I  aspired 
Ere  to-night  to  be  able  the  end  to  write  here 
Of  this  unhappy  love.     But  this  record,  I  fear, 
Looks  not  much  like  an  overcome  passion. 

We  leave 
On  the  night  train  for  Boston,  on  next  Wednesday  eve. 
And  so  to  my  home  I  once  more  bid  adieu, 
To  my  darling,  and  also,  my  Journal,  to  you. 


March  23d,  1867. 


SATURDAY. 


Once  more  I'm  in  Brooklyn !     How  happy  I  am 
That,  after  a  long,  five  months'  absence,  I  can 
Sit  here  in  my  own,  cosey,  dearly-loved  room, 
My  old  confidential  chats  here  to  resume 
With  my  Journal ;  once  more  on  its  pages  to  trace 
The  sweet  words  "  at  home  !  "     There  indeed  is  no  place 


STOLEN  WATERS.  253 

So  dear  to  my  heart !     I  from  Boston  arrived 
About  two  a.m.  yesterday. 

Well!  my  life, 
Since  I  left  home  last  fall,  has  as  usual  not  been 
Uneventful ;  but  on  the  contrary,  within 
A  few  moriths  a  great  deal  has  been  crowded.     But  it 
Is  so  far  in  the  past,  I  have  now,  I  admit, 
No  time,  nor,  in  fact,  inclination  to  write 
It  in  detail,  and  merely  will  give  here  to-night 
A  summary  brief  of  a  part. 

When  I  had 
Been  in  B.  a  few  days  only,  I  was  attacked 
With  severe  fever  symptoms,  so  suddenly  that 
'Twas  with  great  difficulty  that  they  were  controlled, 
And  for  a  few  days  was  quite  ill.     On  the  whole, 
It  was  almost  a  wonder  that  I  had  escaped 
A  long  run  of  fever. 

I  wrote  the  same  day 
I  arrived,  to  my  friend ;  disappointed  was  I, 
And  greatly,  that  to  it  I  had  no  reply. 
I  waited  some  two  weeks,  and  then  wrote  again. 
Still  no  answer !     A  letter  to  Annie  I  then 
Dispatched,  and  enclosed  one  to  him,  the  desire 
Expressing  that  she'd  take  it  in  and  inquire 
For  him — thus  the  state  of  his  health  ascertain, 
And  at  once  let  me  know  the  result.     This  was  vain 
♦(I  had  written  to  her  two  or  three  times  before), 
For  from  neither  a  word  I  received.     And  once  more 
I  was  in  despair  !   and  I  cannot  express 
How  unhappy  it  made  me  ;  and  yet,  none  the  less 
Did  I  trust  him,  nor  lose  for  one  moment  in  him 
My  confidence  ;  and  I  felt  sure  he'd  not  been 


254  STOLEN  WATERS. 

In  fault  in  the  matter.     When  I  could  repress 

No  longer  the  grief  which  I  can  but  confess 

Each  day  but  became  more  unbearable  still, 

The  suspense  and  anxiety  no  force  of  will 

Could  suppress,  which  was  killing  me — Fannie  would  say, 

"  Why  was  I  so  sad,  why  not  try  to  be  gay  ? 

She  was  sure  I  had  nothing  to  trouble  me  !  "     She 

Would  thought  differently  had  she  changed  places  with  me. 

Were  her  husband  away  from  her,  ill,  perhaps  blind, 

Or  sleeping  in  Death's  icy  clasp — and  a  line 

Or  a  word  of,  or  from  him  she  could  not  receive, 

She  would  weep,  and  imagine  she'd  reason  to  grieve. 

I  say  this  deliberately.     I  believe 

He's  no  less  dear  to  me  than  her  husband  to  her. 

I  was  just  as  assured  he  was  ill,  as  if  word 

To  that  effect  I  had  received. 

An  event 
Of  some  moment,  six  weeks  or  so  after  I  went 
To  Boston,  occurred,  which  I'll  briefly  state  here : 
When  just  finished  shopping,  one  day,  sharp  and  clear 
A  fire  alarm  struck  from  the  "  Old  South"  church  bell, 
And  was  echoed  all  over  the  city,  as  well. 
A  few  moments  later  the  engines  rushed  past, 
A  mad  crowd  in  their  wake.     They  were  all  gone  at  last, 
And  crossing  the  sidewalk,  I  signalled  a  car, 
Then  leisurely  walked  out  to  meet  it.     Not  far 
Had  I  gone,  ere  I  heard  shouts  of  "  haste  !  "  and  was  caught, 
Dragged  on  to  the  platform,  and  thrust  qiiick  as  thought 
In  the  car,  where  a  man  on  the  left  in  his  arms 
Clasped  me  close — then  a  crash,  a  few  screams  of  alarm, 
Or  of  pain,  and  I,  trembling  and  white,  but  unharmed, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  '    255 

"Was  released,  and  sat  down.     And  then,  for  the  first  time, 

I  knew  what  the  danger  had  been,  and  divined 

What  a  hairbreadth  escape  I  had  suffered.     It  seems 

That  an  engine,  in  all  its  mad  fury — unseen 

And  unheard  of  by  me — was  directly  behind 

The  car,  which,  obeying  the  signal  of  mine, 

By  stopping  provoked  the  collision,  which  then 

Could  not  be  avoided.     They  told  me  that  when 

They  saw  me  approaching  they  thought  I  could  not 

Escape  certain  death.     I,  unconscious  of  what 

Was  menacing  me,  must  assuredly  met 

The  fate  which  then  threatened — I  shudder  e'en  yet, 

When  I  think  of  it — had  it  not  been  for  the  kind 

And  prompt  action  of  those  on  the  car  at  the  time, 

And  the  interposition  direct  of  Divine 

Omnipotent  love  and  protection.     It  seemed 

A  miracle,  almost,  that  saved  me.     I  deemed 

It  indeed  nothing  less.     The  pole  of  the  engine 

Was  half-way  through  the  car,  and  the  door  was  crushed  in, 

The  window-pane  shattered,  and  weak  women  screamed, 

And  attempted  to  faint,  and  the  crimson  blood  streamed 

From  both  cheek  and  hand  of  one  man  near  the  door ; 

Another  one  had  his  coat  torn  ;  several  more 

Were  injured  in  person  or  dress — yet  was  I, 

More  exposed  than  all  others,  by  danger  passed  by, 

And  I  stood  there  unharmed  and  untouched.     Not  a  word 

Did  I  speak,  but  to  answer,  when  if  I  was  hurt 

They  kindly  inquired.     I  almost  held  my  breath 

At  the  Power  which  saved  me  from  violent  death. 

And  I  thought  that  I  never  would  murmur  again 

At  whatever  might  come ;  or  despair,  feeling  then 


256  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  there  must  be  something  in  store  for  me  yet, 
Or  I  would,  not  been  spared ;  and,  resolving  to  fret 
No  more  at  Fate's  fickleness,  wait  for  the  end 
With  patience,  with  trust,  and  with  hope. 

To  my  friend, 
My  dearest,  I  wrote  the  last  day  of  the  year, 
With  hopes  that  would  bring  me  some  tidings.     A  mere 
Note  only,  I  sent,  scarce  a  page,  yet  I  knew 
'Twas  enough  to  assure  him  that  I  was  "  still' true," 
And  that  if  he  was  well  he'd  let  me  know  the  same. 
In  due  time,  to  my  joy,  a  reply  to  this  came. 
It  was  brief,  but  he  stated  he'd  written  me  three 
Directed  according  to  orders.     That  he 
Had  been  sick,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  was  better. 
That  note  I  was  not  to  consider  a  letter ; 
Was  just  leaving  town,  and  had  no  time  to  write ; 
Would  only  be  gone  a  few  days,  then  I  might 
Expect  to  hear  from  him  again.     But  although 
I  waited,  and  hoped,  besides  writing,  also, 
One  or  two  more  to  him,  yet  not  one  other  line 
Did  I  receive  from  him,  in  all  the  long  time 
I  was  absent.     And  though  I  wrote  Annie,  again 
And  again,  I  heard  nothing  from  her.     This,  too,  when 
From  Colonel  Allair  I  was  hearing  each  week, 
And  from  home  twice  as  often  as  that,  not  to  speak 
Of  others  more  transient ;  yet  not  one  was  lost, 
And  I  thought  it  was  hard  those  I  wanted  the  most 
Should  have  been  just  the  ones  to  miscarry. 

There  was 
In  Maiden  a  friend  of  my  brother-in-law's, 
Whose  acquaintance  I  made  while  in  B.     There  was  not, 
All  during  my  stay,  a  week  parsed  by,  but  what 


STOLEN  WATERS.  257 

He  was  there,  and  quite  often  more  frequently  still. 

I  liked  him  very  much,  and  had  reason  to  feel 

The  attachment  was  mutual.     Indeed,  we  at  once 

Became  very  good  friends ;  and  the  long,  weary  months 

Of  my  absence  from  home  his  society  could 

But  render  more  pleasant,  indeed,  than  they  would 

Have  otherwise  been.     And  between  us  one  bond 

Of  union  there  was,  he  knew  naught  of.     I  found 

That  he'd  "loved  and  lost ; "  and  though  he  little  thought 

That  I  was  aware  of  the  fact,  I  could  not 

Avoid  feeling  for  him,  from  the  depths  of  my  heart. 

He,  knowing  the  day  that  I  meant  to  depart, 

Met  me  at  the  depot,  and  bade  me  farewell 

With  regret  that  was  evident.     I  cannot  tell 

When  again  we  shall  meet — probably  not  for  long — 

But  with  pleasure  I  ever  shall  look  back  upon 

Our  pleasant  acquaintance. 

We'd  been  a  short  time 
In  B.  when  my  sister's  health  slowly  declined, 
And  soon  after  the  birth  of  the  "  Happy  New  Year," 
She  seemed  slipping  from  earth,  while  with  anguish  and 

tears, 
We  knew  we  could  ne'er  stay  the  fluttering  soul, 
Felt  her  feet  would  be  soon  threading  streets  of  pure  gold, 
Her  weary  head  pillowed  on  Jesus'  true  breast, 
And  her  impatient  spirit  forever  at  rest. 
My  mother  and  father  were  summoned  in  haste, 
And  came  on,  expecting  to  see  the  dear  face 
Frozen,  white,  by  the  kiss  of  the  conqueror,  Death ; 
And  indeed,  we  could  fancy  his  icy  cold  breath 
Had  fanned  her  pale  cheek,  so  near  his  portals  grim 
Did  her  faltering  feet  then  approach.     I  had  been 


258  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Last  to  give  up  all  Hope,  and  I  night  and  day  passed 

By  her  side,  'till  upon  the  fair  brow  gathered  fast 

The  cold  dews  of  death,  the  pulse  nickered  and  failed, 

The  soft  loving  eye  became  dim,  'neath  the  nails 

The  purple  blood  settled;  then  my  hope  was  gone; 

In  my  heart  I  then  bade  her  a  silent,  and  long, 

Last  farewell,  thinking  never  to  see  her  again, 

'Till  the  jewel  was  lost  from  the  casket.     But  when 

The  night  waned,  the  grim  visitor  slunk  from  our  door, 

And  fair  hope  fluttered  back  to  our  sad  hearts  once  more. 

What  a  trying  time  'twas  to  us  all !     In  despair 

Was  her  husband — her  children  grief-stricken — all  care 

Devolved  upon  me,  no  less  troubled,  indeed  ! 

Truly  strength  must  be  given  to  us  as  we  need, 

Or  I  could  not  endured  what  I  did  in  those  days. 

When  we  gave  up  the  loved  one,  I  promised  to  stay 

As  long  as  they  needed  my  presence  ;  although 

The  effort  which  it  required,  God  alone  knows  ! 

But  I  counted  the  cost,  and  still  felt  it  to  be 

A  duty  for  me  to  remain.     I  could  see, 

When,  later  she  told  me  that  I  was  indeed 

Such  a  comfort  to  her  when  she  felt  that  her  feet 

Were  fast  slipping  over  the  brink,  why  impelled 

I  was  to  leave  Brooklyn,  last  fall,  and,  as  well, 

One  reason  why  God  spared  my  life  weeks  before, 

When  'twas  in  fearful  peril.     When  she,  as  of  yore, 

Was  again  in  our  midst,  seemed  as  if  we'd  had  one 

Given  back  from  the  grave.     'Till  her  health  had  become 

Sufficiently  firm  to  permit  a  resume 

Of  her  family's  charge,  I  remained,  and  then  soon 

Turned  my  joyful  steps  homeward. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  259 

Awaiting  me  there, 
I  found  a  nice  letter  from  Colonel  Allair. 
Have  to-day  been  in  town,  and  of  course  called  to  try 
And  some  tidings  obtain  of  my  love.     Just  as  I 
Had  expected,  I  found  he  was  ill.     'Twas  about 
Three  weeks,  they  informed  me,  since  he  had  been  out ; 
Was  no  better  when  last  they  had  heard — yesterday. 
Though  this  knowledge  made  me  very  sad,  I  must  say 
Even  that  was  much  better  than  longer  suspense. 
Of  late  my  anxiety's  been  most  intense. 
I  knew  not,  of  course,  but  in  all  this  long  time, 
Death  had  entered  his  door.     Eelieved  was  I  to  find 
My  dear  one  was  living,  though  'prisoned  within 
A  silent  and  darkened  apartment.     For  him 
It  is  very  hard  thus  afflicted  to  be — 
Hard  for  him — for  all  his — doubly  painful  for  me, 
Who  must  constant  suspense  and  uncertainty  feel, 
And  cannot  be  near  him  to  nurse,  soothe,  or  heal. 


April  11th,  1867. 

THURSDAY. 

I  had  been  home  from  Boston  not  more  than  a  week 
When  somewhat  surprised  was  I  at  the  receipt 
Of  another  nice  letter  from  Colonel  Allair — 
Although  none  was  due  me  ;  and,  wondering  where 
I  could  be  all  that  time  that  from  me  he'd  not  heard. 
He  was  anxious  extremely,  he  said,  for  some  word, 
And  feared  there'd  befallen  me  some  accident 
On  my  way  home  from  B.     Not  in  any  event 


260  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Expressing  one  doubt  of  myself.     My  dear  boy  ! 
His  letter  was  most  kind,  and  gave  me  much  joy. 
A  short  time  after  my  return,  Annie  one  day 
Came  over  to  see  me,  and  said,  by  the  way, 
That  while  I  was  absent  she  wrote  me  three  times, 
Yet  not  once  did  I  hear.     'Tis  indeed  to  my  mind 
Very  incomprehensible. 

How  sad  I  was 
All  day  Sabbath !  yet  from  no  particular  cause, 
Or  rather  no  new  cause ;  old  griefs,  and  the  old 
And  yet  ever  new  wounds  !     Not  alone  the  untold 
Despair  of  my  wasted,  unwise,  hopeless  love, 
But  my  long-broken  vows  to  my  Father  above, 
Lost  hope,  and  lost  happiness.     I  can't  convey 
To  these  pages,  how  heavy  my  heart  was  all  day. 
But  'tis  gone,  and  I  will  not  attempt  its  recall — 
A  passing  cloud  merely,  yet,  however  small, 
Dark  and  heavy  with  rain-drops ;  but  only  such  as 
Have  over  my  life-sky  but  too  often  passed, 
And  more  and  more  frequently  still,  as  the  swift 
Flitting  years  onward  roll.     And  to-day  the  cloud-drifts 
Have  been  scarcely  less  dark.     All  the  night  I  had  dreams 
Of  my  friend — dreams  not  pleasant.     With  morning's 

first  beams, 
I  weeping  awoke.     I'm  so  anxious !     It  seems 
As  though  I  could  not  any  longer  endure 
This  racking  suspense.     No  one  knows,  I  am  sure, 
Half  how  wearying  'tis.     Were  it  but  allowed  me 
To  see  him,  to  soothe  a  few  moments,  'twould  be 
A  blest  privilege ;  but  I  have  neither  the  rightt 
Nor  the  power ;  but  'tis  very  hard  to  be  quite 


STOLEN  WATERS.  261 

Content  always.     Oh,  why  do  I  love  him?  And  why 

Can  I  not  give  him  up  ?     When  in  B.,  by  the  by, 

A  friend  casually  said,  "  Two  years  is  a  long  time 

To  be  constant !  "     But  I,  unto  this  love  of  mine, 

So  hopeless,  perhaps  unrequited,  have  been 

Not  two,  but  four  years,  nearly,  constant.     And  in 

My  heart,  I  must  own,  that  the  love  is  to-day 

Warmer,  purer,  and  sweeter,  and  in  every  way 

More  deep  and  enduring  than  ever  before. 

There  is  sweet  with  the  pain,  balm  is  oft  sprinkled  o'er 

My  heart's  bitter  anguish.     I  love  him  with  truth, 

And  with  purity.     So  there  is  nothing,  forsooth, 

In  the  love  that  should  shame  me ;  and  only  an  act 

Accomplished  long  years  ere  I  knew  him,  in  fact, 

Almost  in  my  babyhood,  makes  love  like  mine 

A  sin,  and  the  simplest  endearment  a  crime. 

I  did  wrong,  in  the  first  place,  I  do  not  deny ! 

But  most  bitterly  have  I  been  punished,  and  I 

Can  but  feel  that  the  sin  has  been  here  expiated, 

And  by  it  the  hereafter  will  not  be  shaded. 

Over  me  for  a  long  time  the  cloud  has  hung  low ; 

Will  its  sable  edge  never  roll  backward,  and  show 

The  bright  splendor  beneath  ?     Or  are  the  few  sweet 

Brief  moments  of  happiness,  exquisite,  deep, 

That  his  presence  has  always  afforded,  to  be 

The  whole  compensation  intended  for  me, 

For  the  anguish  and  pain  I've  endured,  and  must  yet  ? 

The  one  brilliant  gem  in  a  setting  of  jet  ? 

The  one  gleam  of  light  in  the  darkness  so  long 

Enshrouding  me  ?     "  Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong, 

And  patient  endurance  is  God-like !  "  one  writes. 

And  if  that  end's  accomplished,  my  heart  made  God-like, 


262  STOLEN  WATERS. 

If  by  patient  endurance  of  this  bitter  grief 

I  am  "  purified,  strengthened,  perfected,"  in  brief, 

If  through  that  I  gain  Heaven,  I'll  think  it,  indeed, 

Lightly  won,  and  give  thanks  for  the  glorious  need. 

A  notice  in  this  evening's  paper  just  caught 

My  eye,  and  which  proved  to  be,  just  as  I  thought, 

Intended  to  summon  to-morrow  a.m. 

Certain  lodges  of  masons  to  meet,  and  attend 

The  funeral  rites  of  a  member.     My  heart 

Stood  still  'till  I  read  it,  and  found  that  the  hard, 

Cruel  dread  at  my  heart-strings  was  not  realized  ; 

That  others  were  called  to  mourn,  not  me ;  and  eyes 

And  heart  filled  with  gratitude.     My  mourning  could 

But  be  secret,  and  kill  me  it  certainly  would. 

It  seems  as  if  that  blow  I  never  could  bear ; 

Me  from  that  bitter  trial,  I  pray  God  to  spare. 


May  4th,  1867. 


SATURDAY. 


About  two  weeks  ago,  I  despatched  a  brief  note 
To  my  dearest,  and  after  the  date,  merely  wrote 
"  B.  S.  is  at  home  ;  when  you're  well  enough,  write 
To  the  usual  address."     And  I  hoped  that  I  might 
Hear  at  once ;  but  a  week  or  more  passed  by  before 
I  received  a  reply ;  then  he  did  not  write  more 
Than  a  half-dozen  lines.     Had  a  few  days  been  out, 
He  hoped  permanently ;  but  he  was  about 


STOLEN  WATERS.  263 

Broken  down.     For  warm  weather  was  praying,  with  trust 
That  his  health  would  recruit.     My  poor  love  !  though  it 

must, 
Without   doubt — summer's   warmth — have    the    longed-for 

effect, 
And  bring  his  old  buoyancy  back  again,  yet 
I  fear  winter's  cold  will  prostrate  him  again, 
And  undo  all  the  glad  summer's  work,  and  as  then 
Make  him  captive  to  pain.     If  with  him  I  could  be, 
I'd  such  care  of  him  take  !     Why  did  fate  deny  me 
What  would  be  such  a  boon !     Nothing  more  I'd  desire 
Than  to  watch  o'er  him,  nurse  him  in  sickness — aspire 
To  naught  better  than  in  all  his  joy  to  rejoice, 
Support  and  give  comfort  in  sorrow.     A  choice 
It  is  not  mine  to  make.     Were  he  healthy  and  strong 
It  would  not  be  so  hard.     And  if  one  of  these  long 
And  repeated  attacks  should  my  darling  leave  blind ! 
How  could  I  endure  it  ?     I've  known  for  some  time 
That  'twas  possible,  probable  even ;  yet  I 
Am  not,  and  ne'er  shall  be,  prepared  for  it.     Why, 
When  I  think  of  that,  should  I  forever  be  teased  * 
With  the  memory  of  "  Jane  Eyre"  and  "  Rochester  "  ?     He 
Was  blind,  also,  and  she  was  permitted  to  be 
Light  and  eyes  to  him ;  yet,  when  he'd  health  and  strength, 

then 
Circumstances  and  stern  destiny  parted  them. 
But  my  "  Rochester,"  he,  my  darling,  my  love, 
*  Does  not  need  me.     God  grant  me  from  Heaven  above 
Strength  sufficient  the  weight  of  my  sorrow  to  bear  ! 
It  grows  very  burdensome ;  and  in  despair 
I  almost  sink  beneath  it.     Will  ever  there  come 
A  better  time  for  me  ?     The  colonel,  in  one 


264  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Of  his  last  letters,  writes — "  'Tis  indeed  a  long,  long, 
Weary  night,  that  not  one  promise  gives  of  the  morn." 
When  will  dawn  for  me  break  ? 

I  wrote  him  in  reply 
To  his  note,  saying  Saturday  afternoon  I 
Would  be  in.     For  an  answer  I  looked  all  the  week, 
But  'twas  not  'till  the  day  I  appointed  received. 
I  went  to  the  door  when  the  carrier  called, 
And  he  passed  me  three  letters ;  the  last  one  of  all 
Was  the  one  long  desired.     In  the  folds  of  my  dress 
I  slipped  it,  and  though  I  could  scarcely  repress 
My  expectant  impatience  the  contents  to  read 
Of  the  unopened  letter,  then  lying,  indeed, 
So  near  to  my  heart,  yet  I  forced  myself  to 
Read  both  of  my  other  long  letters  quite  through — 
One  each  from  my  brother  and  sister — and  then 
I  hastened  upstairs  to  devour  the  contents 
Of  the  other.     He  merely  wrote,  though,  he  would  be 
At  the  L.  about  six  o'clock  Saturday  eve. 
I  at  once  made  my  toilet,  then  up  town  to  see 
My  friend  Annie  I  went,  and  returned  at  the  time 
Appointed.     But  scarcely  expected  to  find 
My  love  at  the  L.,  as  I  wrote  him  in  mine 
I  should  not  be  in  if  it  rained,  and  it  did 
Nearly  all  the  p.m.  ;  knew  his  health  would  forbid 
Of  his  braving  a  storm ;  and  he  came  not. 

I  sent 
Another,  and  made  an  appointment  again 
For  yesterday.     And  I  am  able  once  more 
To  record  pleasant  things,  and  to  write  as  of  yore, 
Of  realized  anticipations,  and  bright, 
Sweet  hopes  all  fulfilled.     And  if,  while  I  shall  write 


STOLEN   WATERS.  265 

Of  yesterday's  happiness,  there  should  sometimes 

A  word  of  endearment  slip  out,  from  the  mine 

Of  my  love  for  him,  why  should  I  care  ?     Why  repress 

The  impulse  to  utter  the  deep  tenderness 

That  broods  in  my  heart  for  him,  when  I  well  know 

That  these  pages  will  be  by  no  eyes  but  my  own 

Seen  ever,  at  least  while  I  live.     And  when  "  life's 

Fitful  fever  "  is  o'er,  and  I  "  sleep,"  why  should  I 

Be  concerned  as  to  what  may  be  then  seen  and  thought? 

Those  who  woidd  for  my  weakness  condemn  me,  do  not 

Know  what  they  in  the  like  circumstances  would  do ; 

And  those,  who  in  any  degree  have  been  through 

The  temptations  and  trials  besetting  me-  so, 

Will  pity  me,  rather  than  censure  ;  will  know 

How  utterly  wretched  I  often  have  been. 

And  while  to  the  dregs  all  the  bitter  drops  in 

The  full  cup  of  love  I  have  drained,  very  few 

Of  its  sweets  I  have  tasted.     That  life's  to  me,  too, 

But  "  a  harvest  of  barren  regrets,"  and  a  blight 

All  my  sweet  hopes  of  happiness,  fleeting  as  bright. 

My  mother  !     How  she  would  feel  did  she  know  all ! 
She  wonders  why  I  am  so  sad,  and  why  pall 
All  my  pleasures  so  soon.     And  she  may  some  time  know, 
Some  time  solve  the  riddle  that  puzzles  her  so. 
I  would  not  have  her  now,  as  I  know  that  it  would 
Cause  her  much  pain,  and  could  do  no  possible  good. 
I  can't  give  him  up !  want  the  requisite  strength  : 
I  expect  that  I  may  be  obliged  to,  at  length, 
By  the  strong  force  of  circumstances ;  and  'till  then 
I  cling  to  him ;  hoping  as  my  love  for  him 
Is  involuntary,  uncontrollable,  in 
12 


266  STOLEN  WATERS. 

All  respects  pure  and  true,  that  it  may  be  forgiven     . 
And  not  future  punishment  bring.     I  have  striven, 
God  knows,  to  o'ercome  it,  and  think  I  have  had 
My  chastisement  all  of  the  time,  in  tne  sad, 
Bitter  humiliation  it  caused,  the  frequent 
Disappointments,  the  grief  which  seems  ne'er  to  be  spent, 
The  hopeless  heart-achings  for  one  who  from  me 
Is  eternally  sundered. 

I  feared  it  would  be 
Stormy  yesterday,  also ;  as  all  the  forenoon 
"Was  cloudy,  with  strong,  cold,  east  winds ;  but  it  soon 
After  noon  cleared  away  very  pleasant.     At  four 
I  left  home,  and  I  then  went  direct  to  the  store. 
The  first  one  I  saw  when  I  opened  the  door 
Was  my  friend,  and  not  far  from  the  entrance.     He  came 
At  once  up  to  me ;  when  we'd  greetings  exchanged, 
I  asked  if  to  go  up  it  was  his  intent. 
He  replied  "  Yes  !  at  six  ?  "  and  I  gave  an  assent, 
And  hastened  away.      I  had  waited  for  him 
An  hour  nearly,  and  he  a  half  hour  too  had  been 
There,  before  we  discovered  each  other,  through  some 
Slight  misunderstanding.     I  stood  not  far  from 
The  entrance,  and  very  much  vexed  I  felt,  too, 
And  thought  if  he  did  not  come  up,  when  he  knew 
That  I  was  in  town,  and  he'd  promised  to  come, 
I'd  never  forgive  him,  nor  ever  make  one 
More  appointment,  when  just  at  that  moment  my  hand 
Was  taken,  a  few  words  of  greeting  said,  and 
I  turned,  and  my  love  was  beside  me.     Remained 
There  a  moment,  then  went  in.     Oh  !  how  he  had  changed  ! 
And  how  my  heart  ached  as  I  saw  in  his  face 
The  ravages  which  two  months'  illness  had  traced. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  267 

He  had  grown  an  old  man  since  last  autumn,  and  yet 
To  my  heart  he  is  dearer  than  ever. 

He  said 
He  wrote  me  thrice  after  the  note  I  received, 
None  of  which  came  to  hand — and  said  last,  he  believed 
He  sent  me  a  paper.   -  It  is  strange,  indeed ! 
At  first  we  of  mere  commonplaces  conversed ; 
But  after  a  time  we  dropped  into  the  first 
Serious  conversation  that  ever  has  passed 
Between  us.     I  wrote  him,  I  think  in  my  last, 
With  my  whole  force  of  will  I  was  trying  to  gain 
The  courage  to  give  him  up  wholly  ;  obtain 
The  requisite  strength  to  say,  never  again 
I'd  a  meeting  appoint,  no  more  letters  write  him ; 
When  we  met  we  would  talk  of  a  parting ;  and  in 
The  interim  hoped  he  would  think  of  it.     Yet, 
When  first  I  referred  to  it,  laughingly  met 
All  I  said  with  evasion,  and  when  I  reproved, 
Retorted  by  saying,  "But  you're  smiling,  too  !  " 
But  his  playfulness  he  at  length  dropped,  and  became 
As  serious  as  I  could  desire.     With  his  cane 
Clasped  in  one  hand,  his  other  one  holding  his  hat, 
Which  he  from  the  table  beside  which  we  sat 
Had  taken  a  moment  before,  and  his  head 
Bent  slightly,  he  listened  to  all  that  I  said, 
Attentively,  gravely,  and  answering,  too, 
As  occasion  demanded. 

I  briefly  reviewed 
Our  long,  desultory  acquaintance,  and  when 
I  spoke  of  the  grief  he  had  caused  me,  he  then 
Asked  what  he  had  done.     I  referred,  in  reply, 
To  his  frequent  neglect  of  my  letters,  his  slight 


268  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Of  my  wishes,  his  failure  engagements  to  keep, 
And  the  like.     But  he  answered,  I  yet  did  not  speak 
Of  what  he  had  done,  only  what  he  had  not. 
That  he  would  prefer  condemnation,  he  thought, 
For  omissive,  rather  than  commissive  sin. 
I  asked  if  he  meant  to  imply  that  he'd  in 
Disregarding  my  wishes  sinned  less  than  he  might 
In  fulfilling  them  ;  and,  that  if  so,  he  was  right, 
I  had  not  a  doubt.     That  was  not,  he  replied, 
What  he  meant ;  but  for  what  he'd  omitted  to  doy 
He  would  rather  be  censured,  when  censure  was  due, 
Than  condemned  for  a  wrong  he  had  done. 

As  I  knew 
He  had  long  been  aware  of  my  love,  reckless,  too, 
As  a  woman  is  ever,  when  once  she's  betrayed 
An  affection  she  should  have  kept  hidden  away, 
I  told  him  quite  plainly  how  dear  he  had  been, 
How  much  more  than  all  others  I  still  cared  for  him, 
And  added,  I  did  not  expect  him  to  think 
Any  more  of  me,  seeing  how  little  I  shrink 
From  telling  him  so — but  he  lifted  his  head, 
And,  "  No  less,  certainly  !  "  with  much  earnestness  said. 
Of  course  that  was  most  gratifying  to  me, 
And  more  so,  as  he  the  truth  proved  it  to  be. 
I  spoke  of  his  letters,  how  cold  and  how  brief 
They  had  been,  with  exception  of  those  I  received 
Just  before  I  left  home,  adding  they  were,  in  fact, 
Satisfactive  entirely.     With  quick,  eager  act, 
Asked  if  that  was  the  truth ;  said  he  was  glad  of  th(it} 
Very  earnestly.     And,  then  I  told  him,  however 
We'd  quarrelled  in  our  correspondence,  there  never 


STOLEN   WATERS.  269 

Had  been  in  our  interviews  aught  to  regret ; 
Those  had  been  very  pleasant  in  every  respect. 
With  a  smile  most  expressive,  he  looked  up  at  that, 
And  my  hand — he  had  taken  in  his  'neath  his  hat — 
Warmly  pressed,  but  said  naught.     Of  how  little  to  him, 
And  how  much  to  me  our  acquaintance  had  been 
I  then  spoke.    And  he  answered  in  such  an  odd  way, 
As  if  all  he  wished  to  he  did  not  dare  say, 
Or  his  strong  feelings  made  it  an  effort  to  speak, 
That  to  him  it  had  been  very  pleasant  indeed. 
I  spoke  of  how  humbling  the  very  fact  was, 
Of  my  caring  for  him,  and  the  consequent  loss 
Of  my  own  self-respect.     But  he  "  could  not  see  why," 
He  answered  ;  and  I  in  surprise  made  reply, 
"  Well,  first,  you  are  married  !  "     He  raised  his  bowed  head, 
With  a  most  meaning  smile  interrupting  me,  said, 
"  I  know  tliat,  very  well !  "     I  continued,  that  it 
Was,  of  course,  very  wrong  for  me,  he  must  admit, 
To  care  more  for  him  than  for  others,  who  were 
Mere  passing  acquaintances ;  and,  not  a  word 
To  speak  or  to  write  to  him,  had  I  a  right, 
Except  what  his  wife  with  propriety  might 
Either  hear  or  perceive  ;  and  he  surely  must  see 
How  deeply  humiliating  it  must  be 
To  one  proud  as  I,  to  be  forced  to  confess 
I  had  lavishly  wasted  the  deep  tenderness 
Of  the  first,  only  love  of  my  heart  upon  one 
Who  cared  nothiug  for  me.     While  I  spoke  there  had  come 
A  slight  flush  to  his  cheek,  though  until  I  had  done 
Never  lifted  his  eyes.     Looking  up  then,  he  asked 
How  I  knew  that.     "  Knew  what  ?  "  I  inquired,  and  there 
passed 


270  STOLEN  WATERS. 

A  slight  tinge  of  embarrassment  into  his  tone, 

As  he  answered — his  hand  pressing  warmly  my  own — 

"  How  know  you  that  I  do  not  care  more  for  you 

Than  I  do  for  all  other  fair  women  ?  "     I  knew 

I'd  no  reason  to  think  that  he  did,  I  replied. 

He  answered,  of  course  he  might  say  that  he  liked, 

Or  loved  me,  indeed !  but,  it  never  would  do 

To  say  all  he  might,  and  he  had  no  right  to. 

Well !  neither  had  I,  I  replied,  but  I  did. 

But  he  said  there  was  naught  to  fo#ce  me  to  restrict 

My  acts  or  my  words.     I'd  a  right  to  say  what 

And  all  that  I  pleased ;  to  another  was  not 

Bound,  as  he  was  ;   I'd  no  one,  of  course^to  object. 

And  I  could  but  feel  for  him  an  added  respect 

For  his  truth  to  the  ties  that  were  round  him,  nor  yet 

Did  I  love  him  the  less  that  his  lips  failed  to  speak 

Words  of  love  which  to  me  would  have  been  very  sweet. 

Then  with  much  hesitation  I  told  him,  one  more 
Matter  was  there,  I  wished  to  refer  to,  before 
We'd  finished  our  confab.     That  sometimes  I'd  thought. 
Since  we  parted  last  fall,  that  I  did  not  know  what 
He  would  think  of  me,  as  I  at  that  time,  I  knew, 
With  scarce  a  remonstrance,  submitted  unto 
The  caresses  he  offered,  and  feared  that  he  might 
Not  perhaps  understand,  that  as  almost  a  right, 
From  him  I  had  taken  what  I  should  have  felt 
As  an  insult  if  offered  by  any  one  else ; 
And  might  think  I  would  take  from  another  the  same. 
He  quickly  replied,  such  a  thought  never  came 
In  his  mind  for  a  moment ;  assuring  me,  then, 
Most  kindly,  there  never  had  been  a  time  when 


STOLEN  WATERS.  271 

He  bad  felt  for  me  aught  but  the  warmest  esteem 
And  most  thorough  respect. 

He,  my  love,  did  not  dream 
What  relief  and  what  gladness  those  words  would  afford, 
Or  how  much  of  my  lost  self-respect  they  restored. 
In  return  I  said  merely,  I  thought  that  he  knew 
That  I'd  ever  reposed  most  implicit  and  true 
Confidence  in  his  honor.     We  both  had  all  through 
Been  feeling  most  deeply,  and  I  had  been  forced 
To  make  a  slight  pause  more  than  once  in  the  course 
Of  our  conversation,  my  voice  to  control, 
Though  we  spoke  but  in  whispers.  '  And  I,  on  the  whole, 
His  character  knowing  so  well,  how  extreme 
Is  his  reticence,  prudence,  reserve — and  supreme 
His  command  of  himself,  think  I  ought  not  to  be 
Dissatisfied  with  the  result.     For  that  he' 
Would  say  that  he  loved  me,  I  did  not  expect. 
Though  his  manner  has  often  said  so,  in  effect. 

After  sitting  a  short  time  in  silence,  we  rose 
To  leave,  and  together  went  out.     I  proposed 
To  go  from  there  up  town,  with  Annie  to  spend 
The  night ;  so  an  errand  it  was  his  intent 
That  evening  to  do  he  postponed,  that  he  might 
Accompany  me.     Took  a  car,  and  had  quite 
A  nice  chat  on  the  way ;  and  we  left  at  the  street 
Where  he  used  to  reside  ;  though  he  feared  we  should  meet 
Some  one  that  he  knew,  and  he  said  there  were  those, 
And  many,  who'd  be  but  too  glad  to  disclose 
To  his  wife  aught  like  that. 

He  had  been  holding  close 
My  hand,  which  he'd  taken  on  leaving  the  car, 


272  STOLEN  WATERS. 

But  between  the  two  avenues,  which  was  not  far, 

He  released  it,  and  folding  his  arm  about  me, 

Held  me  thus  while  we  walked  a  short  distance ;  then  he 

Again  drew  my  hand  in  his  arm.     We  turned  down 

The  avenue,  paused  at  the  Park,  where  we  found 

Ourselves  shortly  after,  and  leaned  o'er  the  gate, 

He  proposing  we  leap  in  the  fountain.     I  gave 

A  laughing  assent,  saying  we  would  have  thus 

Death  together,  if  life  union  was  denied  us ! 

"  And  I  thought  'twere  delicious  to  die  then,  if  death 

Would   come   while  my   mouth   was  yet  moist  with  his 

breath  !  " 
Again,  taking  me  to  my  friend  Annie's  door, 
Kissed,  and  bade  me  farewell,  and  we  parted  once  more. 


June  18th,  1867. 

TUESDAY. 

How  one  event  crowds  on  another !     To-night 
I  have,  as  in  general,  so  much  to  write, 
I  hardly  know  where  to  begin.     Much,  I  mean, 
Which  relates  to  my  heart-life,  by  others  unseen. 

What  an  odd  thing  my  friendship  is  with  John  Allair  ! 
Our  fates  seem  somehow  strangely  mingled,  and  where 
It  all  is  to  end,  I  know  not.     There,  indeed, 
Is  a  warmth  and  affection  between  us,  we  read 
Or  hear  of  but  seldom.     He's  called  me,  for  long, 
His  "  dear  sister  ! "  and  that  epithet  covers  strong 


STOLEN  WATERS.  273 

Expressions  of  ardent  attachment.     In  truth, 

He  makes  love  to  me  under  that  guise,  and,  forsooth, 

Does  it  prettily,  too  !     He  tells  me  that  I  am 

His  "  pet  sister,"  his  "  fondest  attachment."     I  can 

Have  not  an  idea  how  much  benefit 

My  letters  have  been  to  him ;  and  I  permit 

Him  to  say  all  the  sweet  things  he  chooses,  while  he 

Thinks  he  gives  naught  but   friendship,  nor   claims  more 

from  me. 
And,  indeed,  he  knows  well  that  my  heart  is  another's, 
And  that  I  can  only  "  love  him  as  a  brother." 
Well !   since  I  wrote  last,  I  in  trouble  have  been — 
Quite  innocently  on  my  part,  though — with  him. 
It  again  is  all  settled,  yet  I  hardly  know 
What  to  think  of  him.     We,  for  two  years  past,  or  so, 
Have  written  the  other  a  letter  each  week ; 
Both  written  on  Sabbath,  both  being  received 
About  the  same  hour  Thursday  morn — though  sometimes 
Until  the  late  mail  he  does  not  receive  mine. 
The  week  subsequent  to  my  last  record  here, 
His  letter  came  promptly,  as  usual.     A  dear, 
Charming,  flattering  letter  it  was,  too,  all  through ! 
In  the  course  of  it,  he  was  referring  unto 
The  receipt  of  my  last,  and  as  follows  he  writes : 
"  It  seemed,  as  I  read  it,  as  if  by  your  side, 
In  actual  converse  with  you,  I  then  sat. 
I  was  in  such  a  state  of  communion,  ere  that, 
With  you,  and  your  letter  then  brought  you,  in  fact, 
So  much  nearer  to  me  than  you  have  been  before, 
That,  when  the  spell  vanished,  it  left  me  once  more 
The  same  feeling  of  sad  and  regretful  unrest 
Which  I  often  have  known,  and  yet  cannot  express 

12* 


274  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Or  account  for.     But  it  was  so  pleasant  and  grand 
To  feel,  yes  !  to  really  feel  the  full,  bland, 
Sweet  influence  of  your  lovely  spirit !   I'm  sure 
That  my  heart  must  have  held  conversation  with  yours, 
And  feel  certain  that  you  were  then  thinking  of  me. 
Cannot  you  recollect  where  you  were  on  that  eve, 
And  what  doing  ?     Do  try,  dear !  and  in  your  reply 
Fail  not  to  inform  me." 

Then  thanks  sent  for  my 
Compliment  with  regard  to  the  change  I  had  seen 
In  his  letters  of  late.     He  had  hoped  I  would  deem 
They  had  changed  for  the  better,  and  he  was  quite  proud 
To  receive  such  assurance  from  me.     He  avowed 
More  indebted  for  it  to  the  "  dear  little  friend 
Who  had  been  to  him  more  than  a  sister,  and  sent 
Her  blest  influence  him  to  assist  in  attempts 
At  self-culture,"  he  was,  than  to  any  beside. 
And  'twas  his  most  sincere,  earnest  prayer  that  she  mi<dit, 
For  the  manner  in  which  she  that  part  had  performed 
Of  her  mission  on  earth,  have  a  full,  sweet  reward. 
Adding,  "  So  do  not  think,  little  dear  stricken  heart, 
That  your  life  is  a  blank  !  " 

Of  this  letter,  a  part 
To  Nettie,  my  dear  friend,  I  read.     Many  times 
She  exclaimed  at  its  elegance,  praising  its  fine, 
Pleasing  sentiments,  and,  when  at  her  strong  desire 
I  had  shown  her  his  picture,  which  much  she  admired, 
In  her  arch,  pretty  way  she  uplifted  her  head, 
And,  "  how  can  you  help  loving  him,  darling,"  she  said, 
"  When  he  is  so  handsome,  and  loves  you  so,  too  ? 
To  say  nothing  of  his  charming  letters  to  you  !  " 


STOLEN  WATERS.  275 

She  thought  then,  and  'till  recently,  we  were  engaged, 
And  believed  naught  I  could  to  the  contrary  say. 

I  could  not  at  first  recollect  how  I  passed 
The  evening  to  which  he  referred ;  but  at  last 
It  all  in  an  instant  across  my  mind  flashed. 
Sitting  close  to  my  love,  in  the  L.'s  reading-room, 
In  such  deep  conversation  it  might  be  presumed 
I'd  no  thought  but  for  him  who  then  sat  beside  me. 
And  I  wished  it  had  been  any  other  time  he 
Had  desired  information  concerning ;  but  knew 
That  part  of  his  letter  I  must  reply  to 
Or  offend  him ;  of  course,  I  could  tell  him,  too,  naught 
But  the  truth,  which  I  did ;  but  yet  writing,  I  thought, 
About  it,  in  such  a  way  he'd  feel,  indeed, 
Rather  flattered  than  otherwise.     Well,  I  received 
His  reply  in  due  time.     'Twas  brief,  cold,  and  he  wrote 
Commonplaces  alone.      And  he  said  at  the  close — 
"  If  this  note,  dear  "  (the  only  place  where  the  first  word 
Of  endearment — of  which  he  is  lavish — occurred), 
"  Proves  uninteresting,  does  not  satisfy, 
You  must  excuse  me,  for  a  good  letter  I 
Could  not  write  j^ou  to-day,  so  unlike  it  I  feel ; 
And  the  reason  I  may,  perhaps,  some  day  reveal. 
Be  a  good  girl,  and  ever  remember  your  friend  !  " 
I  toas  both  perplexed  and  indignant.     The  end 
Was  much  like  the  whole.     I  could  all  overlook 
Except  one  thing! — the  coldness,  constraint  I  could  brook, 
Thinking  he  might  be  troubled,  in  spirits  depressed, 
Were  it  not  for  the  manner  in  which  'twas  addressed — 
"  My  dear  friend  !  "     At  the  head  he  in  general  writes, 
"  My  sweet  sister,  "  "  My  dear  little  pet,"  and  the  like. 


276  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  I  knew  there  was  naught  but  displeasure  with  me 

That  could  prompt  him  to  write  in  that  way  ;  and  could  see 

No  cause  for  it,  either,  but  what  I  wrote  him 

Of  how  I  was  occupied  on  the  evening 

Of  which  he  inquired  ;  and  I  could  not  see  why 

That  should  had  such  results.     I  regretted  that  I 

Had  written  about  it ;  though  he,  in  effect 

Forced  me  to.     And  yet,  what  is  his  right  to  object 

To  my  passing  the  eve  with  whoever  I  choose  ? 

Does  he  think  all  companionship  I  must  refuse, 

While  I  hold  correspondence  with  him — a  mere  friend  ? 

If  he  does,  I  imagine  he'll  find,  in  the  end, 

His  mistake.     And  the  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more 

I  indignant  became.     Nettie,  looking  it  o'er, 

Declared  that  at  length  he  had  "  found,  with  surprise, 

That  his  friendship  turns  out  to  be  love  in  disguise." 

And  I  thought  even  he  could  not  censure  me  much 

If  Zhalf  suspected  the  same.     There  was  such 

An  air,  too,  of  misery  all  the  way  through ; 

And  that  no  trifling  thing  it  could  be,  I  well  knew, 

To  cause  him  to  write  in  that  manner  to  me. 

I  did  not  reply  'till  the  next  Sabbath  eve, 
And  then  said — "  Let  us  not  repetition  have,  John, 
Of  last  summer's  experience.     If  I  have  done 
Aught  to  vex  you,  why,  tell  me  with  frankness  what,  and 
I'll  apologize,  or  take  it  back,  if  I  can. 
Whatever  it  may  be,  you  surely  must  know 
It  was  done  innocently,  unwittingly ;  so" 
My  conscience  is  clear,  and  I'd  certainly  no 
Desire  but  to  please  you."     The  following  week 
Came  his  usual  letter — although,  of  course,  he'd 


STOLEN   WATERS.  277 

Not  received  mine  as  yet,  as  four  days  are  required 

For  a  letter  to  go,  and  so  when  we  desire 

To  receive  more  than  one  in  two  weeks,  it  becomes 

Necessary  for  two  sets  of  letters,  not  one  ; 

So  this  was  the  answer  to  one  sent  before : — 

It  was  long,  and  as  loving  as  ever,  and  bore 

To  the  other  no  reference  ;  but,  there  was  quite 

An  undertone  through  it  of  sadness,  unlike 

Any  I  have  had  from  him  before.     Did  not  write 

As  early  as  usual,  in  fact,  not  'till  night. 

Then  said — "  But  while  I've,  dear,  been  silent  all  day, 

I  do  not  think  you've  from  my  thoughts  been  away 

For  more  than  five  minutes  at  any  one  time, 

And  not  often  for  such  a  duration.     In  fine, 

In  my  thoughts  you've  a  fixture  become  !  " 

This,  I  deemed, 
"Was  a  good  deal  to  say  !     Many  other  nice  things, 
And  pleasant,  he  said,  that  I  cannot  write  here. 
It  is  too  bad  to  tease  him  so,  he's  such  a  dear, 
Good  boy,  such  a  kind,  such  a  true,  loving  friend ! 
And  to  do  so  I  certainly  did  not  intend. 
The  next  week  brought  an  answer  to  mine,  which 

contained 
Of  the  cause  a  complete  explanation,  the  same 
Which  I  had  surmised.     And  then,  lest  that  should  not 
Restore  him  in  full  to  his  place  in  my  heart, 
Wrote  again  in  a  few  days.     Since  then  it  has  been 
All  right,  and  I  think  no  more  of  it. 

Within 
The  past  month  I  have  thought  with  more  seriousness 
Than  I  ever  have  previously  done,  I  confess, 


278  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Of  my  love  giving  up.     And  I  ne'er  realized 

So  fully  before  what  a  great  sacrifice 

It  would  be,  what  an  effort  'twould  cost.     Opening 

A  book,  pencil-marks  of  his  were  the  first  thing 

Which  I  saw  there.     I  entered  the  parlors,  wherein 

Were  so  many  things  to  remind  me  of  him — 

The  rocker  he'd  lounged  in,  the  sofa  where  we 

Together  had  sat,  books  and  albums  which  he 

Had  handled.     Upstairs  I  came,  opened  my  desk, 

There  were  letters  in  his  clear  handwriting  addressed, 

His  dear  picture  beside  them.     Each  time  I  exclaimed, 

With  a  shudder,  "  How  can  I !  "     And  when  evening  came, 

And  I  opened  my  journal  to  write,  I  discerned, 

The  first  thing,  a  poem  he  sent  me  ;  I  turned 

A  few  leaves,  and  a  picture  was  there  brought  to  view, 

Which  was  eloquent  of  the  bright  hour  when  we  two 

Looked  at  it  together — and  his  name  I  found 

Upon  every  page.     Closed  my  book,  and  threw  down — 

Without  writing — my  pen.     My  heart  turned  sick  with 

dread, 
And  "  I  never  can  do  it,  I  cannot!'1''  I  said. 
I  felt  that  there  was  a  vast  difference  between 
Giving  him  up  entirely,  and  living  on  e'en 
The  terms  we  do  now.     I  dismissed  from  my  mind 
All  thought  of  the  sacrifice. 

Some  little  time 
Ago,  I  received  a  newspaper  from  him  ; 
Expecting  it,  answered  the  carrier's  ring 
Myself,  and  upstairs  took  it,  ere  I  went  back 
To  the  room  I  had  left,  and  where  mother  then  sat. 
She  said  naught  of  it,  but  it  seems  thought  the  more. 
For,  a  few  days  thereafter,  I  slipped  out  the  door 


STOLEN  WATERS.  279 

And  ran  to  the  box  at  the  corner,  a  note 

To  him  to  deposit.     Mamma  did  not  know 

That  we,  since  we  parted  some  three  years  ago, 

Have  had  any  intercourse.     When  back  I  came, 

She  asked  if  to  him  I  was  writing  again. 

I  could  not  deny  it,  of  course ;  on  the  whole, 

Found  "  open  confession  was  good  for  the  soul." 

I  told  her,  with  tears  which  I  could  not  repress, 

The  whole  bitter  truth  ;  nothing  did  I  suppress, 

And  I'm  so  glad  she  knows  it !     It's  taken,  indeed, 

From  my  mind  a  great  burden.     That  I  had  deceived 

My  dear,  kind,  loving  mother,  has  long  been  to  me 

A  most  bitter  thought.     And  I  knew,  too,  that  she, 

Felt  almost  contempt  for  my  darling ;  but  when 

I  told  her  how  generous,  noble,  he'd  been — 

In  all  this  long  time  how  he  never  had  made 

One  attempt,  e'en,  the  slightest  advantage  to  take 

Of  the  love  he  had  long  known  so  well,  and  how  true 

His  regard  and  esteem  was  for  me,  and  how,  too, 

I  thoroughly  honor  and  trust  him — how  glad 

I  was  I  could  say  it ! — she  told  me  if  that 

Was  the  truth,  he  was  one  in  a  thousand  ;  and  said, 

Though  that  I  should  love  him  she  could  but  regret, 

To  our  being  good  friends  she  would  never  object, 

Nor,  indeed,  to  our  seeing  each  other,  so  long 

As  she  now  was  assured  there  was  nothing  more  wrong. 

My  dear  mother !   so  kind  to  her  sad,  wayward  child  ! 

God  bless  her  !   and  keep  me  from  turning  her  smiles 

To  tear-drops  of  sorrow  !      It  gave  me  such  joy 

She  should  change  her  opinion  of  him,  my  dear  boy ! 

Such  gladness  to  have  her  at  length  learn  to  know 

AW  Ids  true  worth  and  honor. 


280  STOLEN  WATERS. 

A  few  days  ago, 
I  was  in  at  the  store  for  a  short  time,  and  had 
With  him  quite  a  nice,  pleasant  little  confab. 
All  the  good  looks  his  illness  last  winter  dispelled 
He'd  regained ;  and  that  day  he  was  looking  so  well, 
And  so  handsome,  I  fell  in  love  over  again  ! 
He  promised  to  write  me  on  Friday,  and  when 
The  next  morning  passed  by  without  bringing  to  me 
The  dear  note,  I  was  much  disappointed-;  but  he 
Is  as  scrupulous,  ever,  a  promise  to  keep, 
As  careful  in  making  one ;  so  I  believed 
He  had  a  good  reason.     The  note  was  received 
Yesterday.     'Twas  a  nice,  pleasant  letter,  indeed  ! 
He  said  he  was  sorry  that  I  should  have  been 
Disappointed  that  morning  in  hearing  from  him; 
But  Friday  he  could  not  the  time  get  to  say 
Even  one  woi'd  to  me. 

I've  been  feeling,  to-day, 
Very  sad  !     For  "  forbidden  fruit "  pining  in  vain; 
My  heart  aching  with  dull  and  incurable  pain 
For  the  soft  "  stolen  waters  "  of  his  priceless  love, 
Which  would  be  to  me  so  passing  sweet — sweet,  above 
All  the  passion  and  depth  of  another's!     Once  more 
I  revolved  in  my  mind,  as  I  have  done  before, 
If  'twere  possible  for  me  my  love  to  give  up, 
And  from  my  heart's  chambers  his  dear  presence  shut. 
But  from  the  dread  prospect  as  usual  I  shrink, 
And  to  him  my  weak  heart  still  persistently  clings. 
How  niuch  I  would  like,  on  this  beautiful  night, 
A  ramble  with  him  in  the  clear,  soft  moonlight ; 
Or  a  nice,  cosey  chat,  in  a  nice,  pleasant  room, 
Open  casements,  our  only  light  that  of  the  moon. 


STOLEN  WATERS.  281 

Others  such  bliss  enjoy,  why  should  I  be  denied ! 

How  I  envy  her  who  has  an  undoubted  right 

To  his  presence,  his  love,  his  caresses !     And  she 

Does  not  know  her  good  fortune,  does  not,  I  believe, 

Her  happiness  prize  as  she  should.     And  would  I, 

I  wonder,  if  I  could  her  place  occupy  ? 

I  think  so,  yet  "  each  heart  knows  its  own  bitterness," 

And  how  much  there  is  of  "  connubial  bliss  " 

In  that  household,  I've  no  means  of  knowing.     I've  thought, 

Sometimes,  he  loves  me  !  but  if  so,  or  if  not, 

I  never  shall  know.     How  unutterably  sweet 

Words  of  love  from  his  dear  lips  would  be — he  who  speaks 

So  little.     Yet  I  could  scarce  love  or  respect 

Him  so  much,  were  he  not  always  so  circumspect, 

So  faithful,  so  careful  to  ever  be  true 

To  her  unto  whom  his  allegiance  is  due. 

My  good,  precious  boy  !  lost  forever  to  me, 

Yet  how  dear  to  my  heart  must  my  love  ever  be ! 


I 

July  Uth,  1867. 

SUNDAY. 

Have  been  quite  indisposed  all  the  day,  and  to-night 
Am  so  very  unhappy  !  too  much  so  to  write, 
Or  to  do  aught  but  weep ;  for  there's  now  going  on 
In  my  mind,  such  a  conflict  between  right  and  wrong, 
Religion  and  love !     And  oh !  what  can  I  do  ? 
What  ought  I  to  do !     How  I  wish  that  I  knew 
And  had  courage  to  do  it.     I  feel  there  is  naught 
I  can  do  in  regard  to  the  former,  without 


2S2  STOLEN  WATERS. 

« 
I  make  an  entire  sacrifice  of  the  last. 
Unless  I  can  root  from  my  heart  all  the  vast 
Wealth  and  power  of  this  fatal  passion.     How  can 
I  give  up  my  darling  ?     How  part  from  the  man 
Who  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  whole  world  beside? 
Could  the  struggle  I  ever  sustain  ?     Is  there  life, 
Strength,  endurance,  enough  in  my  heart  to  suffice 
To  support  me,  my  broken  heart  heal  ?     God  alone 
Knows  how  bitter  'twould  be.      Gould  I  part  from  "my 


own" 


Forever?     Put  far  from  my  sight  everything 

That  in  any  degree  should  remind  me  of  him? 

Never  hope  him  to  see  or  to  hear  from  again  ? 

'Twould  indeed  be  a  trial  most  fearful !     And  when 

It  was  o'er,  in  my  life  what  a  drear  blank  'twould  leave. 

Once  resolved  on,  I  would  not  turn  back,  I  believe ; 

But  I  fear  the  required  resolution  will  be 

Not  obtained  very  soon.     I'll  think  of  it,  and  see. 


July  15th,  1867. 


MONDAY. 


Only  twenty-four  hours  since  herein  I  wrote  last ; 
And  more  than  twelve  hours  ago  was  the  die  cast, 
The  deed  done,  and  the  fatal  words  said  that  will  part 
Me  forever  from  him  who's  the  joy  of  my  heart, 
The  dearest  of  all  earthly  objects  to  me, 
And  whose  name  is  inscribed  on  this  book's  every  leaf. 
I  write  this  with  no  tear  ;  for  my  fountain  of  grief 


STOLEN  WATERS.  283 

Hours  ago  was  exhausted.     The  tear-drops  have  all 
Trickled  down  to  my  heart,  and  lie  there  like  a  pall, 
A  dead  weight  of  sorrow. 

Last  night  I  spent  hours 
In  weeping,  and  deep,  troubled  thought ;  for  the  power 
Of  conscience,  awakened,  would  make  itself  heard, 
And  pierced  my  poor  heart  with  each  soft-spoken  word. 
It  told  me  that  I  had  been  sinful  and  weak ; 
Had  yielded,  where  I  should  resisted.     Like  Eve, 
I  had  suffered  myself  to  be  tempted,  beguiled 
Into  tasting  of  fruit  that's  forbidden.     And  while 
Unto  the  dominion  of  passion  so  wrong — 
Notwithstanding  its  purity — I  should  succumb, 
I  never  could  hope  to  regain  what  I  lost 
Years  ago,  grace  and  favor  of  God.     If  I  was 
Not  feeling  to  Him  as  I  ought,  I  at  least 
Could  my  duty  perform,  and  the  whole  issue  leave 
In  His  hands !     And  when  at  the  untold  sacrifice 
My  heart  murmured,  and  in  bitter  agony  cried 
That  its  idol  it  could  not  give  up,  a  reply 
To  my  soul  in  a  small,  stilly  voice  softly  came — 
"  Shall  Jesus  for  you  have  died  wholly  in  vain  ? 
Think  what  lie  for  you  suffered !  and  can  you  not  do 
This,  even,  for  Him  ?  "     Thus  presented  unto 
My  mind  was  the  subject,  and  neither  could  I 
Of  it  rid  myself,  nor  its  force  could  deny. 
In  a  case  such  as  that,  how  could  I  hesitate  ? 
To  the  tempter  how  list,  when  the  Voice  Divine  spake. 
And  so  "  through  many  pangs  of  heart,  through  many  tears,'* 
Was  the  firm  resolve  born  that  my  idol  for  years 
Should  be  shattered,  torn  out  of  my  heart,  given  up 
In  a  sacrifice  whole  and  entire,  ever  shut 


284  STOLEN  WATERS. 

From  all  part  in  a  life  he  had  made  bitter-sweet. 
A  resolve  which  ne'er  faltered,  amid  all  the  deep 
Pain  and  anguish,  and  bitter  despair  which  it  caused — 
And  my  Father  above  knows  alone  what  that  was  ! 
So  religion  and  conscience  have  triumphed  at  length, 
Done  what   coldness,   and  slights,  all  my  will's  force  and 

strength, 
The  contempt  of  the  world,  or  a  mother's  regret, 
Or  even  the  loss  of  my  own  self-respect, 
Could  never  accomplished.     A  blank,  oh,  how  dreary, 
Is  stretching  before  me !     A  life,  oh,  how  weary 
Must  henceforth  be  mine !     I  can't  think  of  it  yet, 
Cannot  yet  realize  of  my  act  the  effect, 
Or  say  to  myself  I  shall  never  again 
See  or  hear  from  my  darling,  from  him  who  has  been 
My  one  thought,  whether  sleeping  or  waking,  for  years. 
Oh,  my  burden  is  more,  is  far  greater,  I  fear, 
Then  I  ever  can  bear !  God  have  mercy  on  me, 
Or  my  heart  it  will  break !      Such  a  pressure  of  grief 
Is  crushed  down  upon  it,  I  scarcely  can  breathe. 
Oh !  my  Father  in  heaven,  give  pity,  relief! 

How  full  of  sharp  agony  was  the  whole  night ! 
And  nothing  but  misery  came  with  the  light. 
Yet  I  know  but  too  well  that  the  worst  is  to  come, 
When  I  from  my  hearHtnust  drive  all  thoughts  of  one 
Still  and  ever  so  dear.     When  I  can  but  succumb 
To  the  sorrow  that  must  almost  crush  me ;  the  dumb, 
Speechless  anguish  I  yet  must  endure.     I  cannot 
Anticipate  it !     It  is  fearfully  hard  ! 
To  him  my  decision  this  morning  I  sent, 
Writing  nearly  as  follows  : 


STOLEN  WATERS.  285 

"  My  Dearest ! 

"  Again, 
And  for  the  last  time,  I  am  writing  to  you, 
To  say,  wholly  and  irrevocably,  too, 
I  at  last  give  you  up !     Do  not  smile,  as  you  read, 
And  wonder  how  many  days  there  will,  indeed, 
Elapse,  ere  another  from  me  is  received. 
I  am  not  trifling  now,  but  am,  as  you  must  know, 
In  most  mis'rable  earnest.     Nor  do  I  say  so 
In  a  moment  of  pique  at  my  sad,  wasted  love, 
Nor  of  anger  with  you — you  who  always  have  proved 
In  the  end,  ever  noble  and  kind,  ever  true — 
But  after  a  night's  hopeless  pain,  such  as  you 
May,  I  trust,  never  know.     Neither  think,  dear,  that  aught 
You  have  done  is  the  cause.     I  am  sure  you  will  not, 
When  I  tell  you  that  never  I  one-half  so  well 
Have  loved  you  as  this  moment,  when  saying  farewell — \ 
Though  the  sad,  fatal  words  that  shall  part  its,  my  pen 
Now  refuses  almost  to  transcribe.     '  And  what  then? ' 
You  will  ask  !    Simply  this :  that  at  length 
My  religion  and  principle's  conquered,  and  naught 
Beside  such  a  great  change  could  ever  have  wrought. 
Between  me  and  my  God  hitherto  you  have  stood, 
Though  to  you  quite  unconsciously.     I  to  Him  could 
Offer  naught  while  I  cherished  a  passion  so  wrong 
As  I  knew  was  my  love,  notwithstanding  its  strong 
And  deep  purity.     Nor  dare  1  hesitate  now, 
Or  longer  ignore  obligations  and  vows 
I  took  on  myself  years  ago.     You  have  been 
The  innocent  cause  of  a  blight  rendering 
All  my  happiness  here,  but  I  can't  permit  you 
To  make  void  all  my  hopes  of  felicity,  too, 


286 


STOLEN  WATERS. 


In  the  blissful  hereafter.     I  know  that  all  this 
You  feel  not  yourself;  but  know,  too,  my  love  is 
No  sceptic,  and  in  its  existence  I  trust 
You  believe.     And  some  day,  I  am  sure  that  you  must 
Experience  what  will  unite  us  as  friends 
In  that  land  far  beyond  the  dark  river,  where  ends 
All  sorrow  and  pain,  where  no  partings  are  known, 
Should  we  meet  ne'er  again  'till  we  meet  at  God's  throne. 
To  this  it  has  come  !     Shall  this  thing  I  not  do 
For  Jesus,  who  died  both  for  me  and  for  you  ? 
I  am  no  enthusiast ;  I  do  not  feel 
These  things  as  I  ought ;  but  when  duty's  revealed 
So  plainly  to  me  I  can  ne'er  hesitate.  „> 

That  at  least  I  can  do,  though  my  heart  it  should  break. 
Do  not  think  I  am  wavering,  either,  or  that 
My  feelings  will  change.     I  do  nothing  by  half. 
And  as  Zhave  loved  you  with  my  whole  heart,  as  your 
Caresses,  and  letters,  and  words  the  most  pure 
And  exquisite  pleasure  have  given  to  me, 
So  now  I,  my  darling,  give  them  up,  and  "  thee," 
At  once  and  forever !     You  never  will  know 
What  the  effort  has  cost  me ;  how  fearful  the  blow  ; 
Or  what  dark,  dreary  days  I  in  future  must  see, 
When  the  one  bitter  thought  of  my  sad  heart  will  be, 
1  My  love  I  shall  see  never  more,  never  more, 
Until  death's  gates  are  passed,  'till  life's  fever  is  o'er  1 ' 
Some  idea,  perhaps,  you  may  have,  of  how  vast 
Is  the  sacrifice,  when,  in  recalling  the  past, 
•  You  think  with  what  strong  pertinacity  I 
Have  clung  to  you  nearly  four  years  now  gone  by, 
Notwithstanding  the  humiliation  and  pain 


STOLEN  WATERS.  2S7 

Which  was  caused  by  affection  so  hopeless  and  vain. 

But  you  never  will  realize  all  the  extent 

Of  the  anguish  with  which  this  decision  is  sent. 

Consider  !  You'd  never  give  me  up,  I  knew  ; 

Never  say,  ■*  I  shall  write  no  more  letters  to  you, 

Another  appointment  I  never  will  keep !  ' 

Knew,  if  it  was  done,  my  hand  must  do  the  deed. 

Indignation  or  anger  I'd  not,  to  assist, 

Or  urge  'gainst  a  heart,  every  fibre  of  which 

Pleads  so  strongly  for  you.     And  I  knew  I  could  see 

Or  hear  from  you  often,  and  that  you  would  be 

Ever  noble  and  true.     Think  of  this — haw  replete 

With  pleasure,  how  deeply,  bewild'ringly  sweet 

Has  our  intercourse  been,  and  you  can  but  perceive 

That  'tis  after  no  slight  struggle  I  these  words  write. 

It  is  fearfully  hard  !   but  yet  rendered  more  light 

From  the  fact  that  I  suffer  alone ;  that  you  will 

Not  the  cruel  stroke  feel  as  I  must  do.     And  still, 

I  think  you  my  decision  perhaps  may  regret. 

That  'twill  cause  you  a  few  bitter  pangs  to  reflect 

That  the  fond  little  friend,  true  to  you,  at  such  cost, 

And  for  such  a  long  time,  you. forever  have  lost. 

But  you'll  know  that  she'll  never  forget  you — your  name 

Will  e'er  thrill  her  heart  with  a  touch  of  the  same 

Old,  beautiful  music — that  she'll  never  love 

Another,  as  she  has  loved  you — far  above 

And  beyond  all  the  world  you  must  stand  in  her  heart,  - 

Though  she  writes,  with  her  own  hand,  the  words,  '  we  must 

part!  ' 
And  that  you'll  forget  her,  she  has  never  a  fear. 

You'll  think  of  her  on  the  last  day  of  the  year, 

% 


288  STOLEN  WATERS. 

On  the  glad  Christmas  Eve.     Think  of  one,  now  and  then, 

Who  loved  you  too  well,  if  not  wisely,  and,  when 

She  loved  you  most  dearly,  resigned  you,  because 

She  felt  it  was  right.     And  if  I've  ever  lost, 

In  any  degree,  your  respect — which,  indeed, 

I've  no  reason  to  think,  and  which  you  a  few  weeks 

Ago  kindly  assured  me  had  not  been  the  case — 

This  I  trust  will  restore  it.     And  I  in  this  place 

Wish  to  render  you  thanks  for  your  kindness  so  true, 

Forbearance,  and  rare  generosity,  too  ; 

Gentle  patience,  and  noble,  complete  self-control, 

Which  enables  us  now  to  look  back  on  the  whole, 

And  think,  notwithstanding  we  may  have  done  wrong, 

We  have  never  been  criminal.     Thanks  to  your  strong, 

Serene,  and  grand  nature,  your  heart  true  and  kind, 

For  your  goodness  to  me  ;  and  God  bless  you  ! 

"  In  fine, 
I  would  see  you  once  more  ere  the  farewell  is  said. 
Will  you  call  on  me  here  ?     Mother  will  not  object ; 
She  knows  all,  and  feels  for  you  the  ?ame  true  respect 
And  honor  that  I  do.     And  while  far  apart 
Our  steps  widely  lead,  the  one  prayer  of  my  heart 
Is  that  blessings  may  follow  you  all  the  world  o'er, 
And  that  God  will  my  dear  one  preserve  evermore, 
'Till  unto  our  rent  souls  conies  a  beautiful  morn — 
When  succeeds  to  death's  darkness  eternity's  dawn. 
This  is  not  my  farewell !     That  alone  I  can  speak 
When  your  arms  are  around  me,  your  lips  on  my  cheek, 
And  your  true  heart  responding  to  mine  at  each  beat — 
Until  then  I  remain 

"  All  your  own, 
*  "  Bitter  Sweet." 


STOLEN  WATERS.  2S9 

A  few  days,  and  it  all  will  be  over  !     The  dream 
So  sweet  will  have  ended.     My  darling  will  seem 
To  drop  out  of  my  life  as  if  dead — dead  to  me 
Forever  and  ever,  until  we  shall  meet 
Where  all  are  united  eternally,  where 
There  can  be  no  partings,  no  marriage,  and  there 
I,  too,  shall  be  his,  and  he  all  mine,  at  last ! 
The  feverish  dream 's  with  the  vanishing  past ; 
I  to  calmness  must  now  school  my  heart,  so  bereft, 
And  in  silence  endure  all  the  pain  that  is  left. 


July  30th,  1867. 

TUESDAY. 

Two  weeks  have  elapsed  since  my  farewell  I  sent 
To  my  love  ;  yet  I  have  not,  until  this  p.m., 
Either  heard  from  or  seen  him.     I  did  not  know  how 
To  account  for  it.     Feeling  I  could  not  allow 
Him  to  slip  from  my  life  without  even  one  more 
Interview  with  my  dear  one,  although,  as  of  yore, 
Pride  rebelled,  I  resolved  I  would  call  at  the  store, 
The  cause  of  this  long,  cruel  silence  to  find. 
Felt  I'd  crushed  down  my  pride  before  too  many  times 
To  yield  to  it  now,  and  one  more  sacrifice 
Could  matter  but  little — let  that  thought  suffice — 
And  went  in  to-day.     He  did  seem  very  glad 
To  see  me,  and  I  could  but  think  that  I  had 
Never  seen  him  so  handsome  as  he  looked  to-day. 
Just  my  beau  ideal  in  every  way  ! 
13 


290  STOLEN  WATERS. 

In  looks,  dress,  appeai-ance,  a  gentleman  true, 

My  precious,  lost  darling  !     How  plain  to  my  view 

Comes  this  moment  his  image  before  me,  as  he 

Appeared  when  to-day  he  stood  talking  to  me. 

Leaning  carelessly  over  the  counter,  thereon 

Carving  triangles,  letters  in  various  forms, 

And  list'ning  attentively,  smiling  or  grave, 

To  all  that  I  said,  glancing  up  as  he  gave 

His  opinion  on  matters  of  which  we  conversed, 

Or  his  answers  to  me.     Splendid,  always !  my  first, 

Only  love !     While  on  my  part  I  both  watched  and  marked 

Every  changing  expression  ;  anew  on  my  heart 

Stamped  each  feature,  in  deep,  ineffaceable  lines. 

At  once  I  referred  to  the  letter  of  mine, 
And  his  failure  an  answer  to  send.     He  replied, 
That  I  asked  no  return ;  he  thought  none  was  required. 
I  requested  that  he  would  come  out,  and  he  thought 
To  do  so  as  soon  as  he  could,  but  had  not 
Found  as  yet  opportunity.     Tsaid  one  thing 
Was  certain  :  he  could  not  be  gladder  to  bring 
To  a  close  our  acquaintance,  more  glad  it  was  o'er, 
Than  I  was.     He  turned  to  me  quickly,  with  more 
Of  pain  in  his  eyes  than  I've  seen  there  before, 
And  earnestly  said,  "  Are  you  glad  it  is  o'er  ?  " 
That  Fm  inconsistent,  I  know  very  well  ! 
But,  forgetting  love's  sweets,  at  that  moment  I  felt 
Its  bitterness  only,  and  thought  I  could  give 
The  former,  if  I  of  the  last  might  be  rid. 
I  told  him  I  had  not  expected  that  he 
Would  care  very  much,  but  I  thought  that  for  me 


STOLEN  WATERS.  291 

And  my  feelings  he'd  have  some  regard.     With  a  touch 

Of  bitterness  answered  he,  "  I  cared  so  much, 

Had  so  much  regard,  I  decided  to  go 

Out  to  see  you,  but  absent  have  been,  and  had  no 

Opportunity  yet,  as  before  I  have  said." 

I  told  him  I  knew  not  but  that  he  was  vexed 

At  what  I  had  written  of  mother,  as  when 

She  first  knew  about  it  he  felt  so.     But  then 

It  was  different,  he  said,  and  he  rather  was  glad 

Than  otherwise,  now,  that  she  knew  it,  and  had 

No  hesitancy  about  coming  out.     Thought 

He  would  quite  like  to  see  her — would  rather  than  not. 

He  said  that  if  possible  he'd  come  this  week. 

In  the  first  of  my  record  this  evening,  I  speak 
Of  my  pride  sacrificing  by  having  gone  in 
To  ascertain  why  I  had  not  heard  from  him. 
And  I  wish  to  say,  now,  that  not  one  moment  I 
Have  regretted  it.     Neither  have  I,  by  the  by, 
Any  similar  sacrifice.     I  never  let 
My  love  conquer  pride,  with  an  after  regret. 
And  he  never  seemed  to  think  "'twas  any  cause 
Of  triumph  to  him,  or  involved  any  loss 
Of  my  dignity  or  self-respect.     When  I've  felt 
Mortified  at  my  own  want  of  firmness,  myself, 
And  weakness  in  yielding  so  much  to  my  strong, 
Overpowering  love  for  him,  potent  so  long, 
Never  word,  look,  or  act  of  his  added  unto 
My  humiliation,  or  showed  that  he  knew 
Or  had  e'er  thought  of  it.     And  how  late  I  have  learned 
To  prize  all  his  goodness  to  me — to  discern 
His  grand  generosity,  charity,  truth. 


292  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Only  after  a  four  years'  acquaintance,  forsooth, 

And  when  I  am  losing  him,  too.     But  I  am 

So  thankful  that  I  have  known  him  'till  I  can 

Be  assured  that  I  have  not  unworthily  loved, 

But  one  who  on  every  occasion  has  proved 

How  superior  he  to  myself  is,  as  well 

As  the  most  of  his  sex.     He's  so  good !  I'm  impelled 

More  and  more  to  esteem  him  each  time  that  we  meet. 

And  I  left  him  to-day,  loving  him  with  more  deep 

And  perfect  a  love  than  I  ever  have  done, 

"Were  that  possible.     Yet  I  must  give  up  the  one 

Who  is  so  dear  to  me  !     And  I  thought  this  p.m., 

After  my  return  home,  'twas  indeed  hard,  that,  when 

A  brief  interview  with  my  love  gave  to  me 

Such  pure  and  entire  happiness,  I  must  be 

Deprived  of  that,  even ;  that  I  from  my  heart 

Must  bid  his  dear  image  forever  depart, 

And  learn  to  be  reconciled  to  the  sad  thought 

That  I  never  shall  see  him  again.     Oh  !  how  fraught 

With  anguish  those  words  are !      Of  that  when  I  think, 

"  All  my  sunshine  grows  suddenly  dark,"  and  I  shrink 

From  the  fearful  ordeal  I  yet  have  to  bear ; 

And  my  calmness  is  but  the' falsehood  of  despair. 


August  6th,  1867. 


TUESDAY. 


With  a  heart  almost  broken  beneath  its  dread  load 
Of  grief  and  bereavement,  with  eyes  overflowed 


STOLEN  WATERS.  293 

With  liot  tears,  trembling  hand,  and  a  faltering  pen, 

In  this  book,  which  has  been  for  so  long  my  dear  friend, 

Companion,  and  confidante,  come  I  to  make 

My  last  record.     For  I  can  but  feel  that  this  day 

Should  close  the  account  of  the  baneful,  and  yet 

Most  beautiful  past,  all  its  love  and  regret, 

All  its  sweetness  and  pain,  all  its  sorrow  and  trust ; 

And  that  when  I  shall  open  another,  it  must 

On  its  pages  no  traces  contain  of  the  sad, 

Troubled  waters  that  these  have  long  flooded. 

I  had 
No  visit  last  week  from  my  love;  but  received 
On  Saturday  morning  a  note,  saying  he 
Had  thought  he  should  see  me  ere  that,  but  was  quite 
Unwell,  and  unless  he  should  get  out  that  night 
Would  be  forced  to  defer  it  'till  Tuesday — to-day. 
I  expected  him  this  afternoon,  and  must  say 
I  was  much  disappointed  when  failing  to  come. 
But  I  had,  just  at  night,  such  a  headache  come  on, 
I  half  wished  that  he  still  might  defer  it,  although 
'Twas  with  heart-throbs  of  pleasure  I  saw  him  approach, 
And  with  warm,  happy  welcome  met  him  at  the  door. 

What  an  evening  we  spent !     All  the  sweet  shadowed  o'er 
By  the  pain  of  the  parting  that  yet  was  in  store. 
Sitting  close  on  the  sofa,  my  hand  in  his  clasp, 
Conversing  of  future,  and  present,  and  past, 
Living  ages  of  happiness  in  the  few  brief, 
Fleeting  moments  of  this  all  too-swift-passing  eve  ; 
And  yet,  with  a  thread  of  despair  through  the  whole, 
Realizing  with  pain  which  we  could  not  control 
That  this  was  the  last!     Oh  !  but  it  was,  indeed, 


294  STOLEN  WATERS. 

To  us  each,  in  one  moment,  both  bitter  and  sweet, 
Both  happy  and  sad. 

We  referring  again 
To  mamma's  knowing  of  the  relation  which  then 
Existed  between  us,  he  said  that  he  felt 
Much  pleased  at  that  part  of  my  letter,  as  well 
As  greatly  relieved.     Was  most  glad  that  she  knew 
All  about  it,  and  that  I'd  told  him  of  it,  too. 
Surely !  that  alone  proves  how  sincere,  pure,  and  true 
His  regard  for  me  is.     I  reproached  him,  that  he 
Had  ever  so  very  reserved  been  with  me, 
And  he  said  all  his  friends  of  the  same  thing  complained. 
But  so  strong  were  his  feelings  that  he  was  constrained 
To  use  much  reserve,  or  he  could  not  keep  them 
At  all  under  control ;  and  also  to  prevent 
His  saying  a  great  many  things  he  ought  not. 
How  true  that  "  deep  waters  flow  stilly,"  I  thought, 
And  that  natures  which  are  most  reserved  are  the  ones 
Most  exquisitely  sensitive,  most  finely  strung, 
And  susceptible  unto  emotion  most  strong. 
He  has  great  self-command— I  have  known  it  for  long. 

What  a  pleasure  I  felt  it  to  be,  to  tell  him 
How  greatly  endeared  to  my  heart  he  had  been 
By  acquaintance  more  close ;  how  much  more  I'd  esteemed 
And  honored  him  as  the  swift  years,  like  a  dream, 
Flitted  onward ;  and  added — as  my  cheek  I  pressed 
To  his,  which  was  then  on  my  shoulder  at  rest — 
"  And  I  think  that  you  are  a  much  better  man,  too, 
Than  you  were  when  we  met  four  years  since ;  do  not  you  ?  ' 
In  a  voice  with  emotion  all  broken,  he  said, 
"  I  hope  I  am,  dear !  "     And  I  know  that,  instead 


STOLEN  WATERS.  295 

» 

Of  being  to  me  a  defilement,  this  sweet, 

Entire,  perfect  love,  lias  been  to  me  of  deep, 

Lasting  benefit,  and  a  strong  safeguard,  as  well. 

Loving  him,  I  from  others  attentions  repelled, 

Which,  received,  might  my  happiness  ruined  for  life. 

Who  knows  not  through  suffering  we're  purified  ? 

And  as  I've  suffered  deeply — how  deeply,  there's  One 

Alone  knows — so  I  trust  that  my  soul  has  become 

Purified  by  the  discipline  which  it  has  known. 

And,  to-day,  feel  that  not  in  religion  alone, 

But  in  character,  principles,  morals,  I  am 

Better  now  than  I  was  four  years  since.     No  one  can 

But  acknowledge  a  high,  pure,  and  perfect  love  has. 

A  refining  influence  upon  the  heart,  that 

Reads  the  discipline  of  disappointment  aright. 

I  believe  the  effect  upon  him  has  been  like. 

And  though  I  in  all  cases  the  tempter  have  been, 

Yet  I  feel  that  the  influence  Pve  had  o'er  him, 

On  the  whole,  has  been  only  for  good.     And  I'm  glad  t 

How  rejoiced,  too,  I  am  that  I  now  can  look  back 

And  say  he's  never  offered  to  me  one  temptation; 

But  has,  in  all  things,  been  the  impersonation 

Of  truly  magnanimous  honor.     My  own 

Peerless  love !     I  am  glad,  very  glad  to  have  known 

Him,  although  it  has  brought  me  such  pain  as  to-night 

I've  been  forced  to  endure. 

When  I  asked  him  not  quite 
To  forget  me,  he  said,  no  ;  it  was  not  with  ease 
We  old,  sweet  recollections  ignore,  and  that  he 
Should  think  very  often  of  me  ;  he  supposed 
He  should  not  ever  see  me  again  !     Very  close 
Was  the  clasp  which  he  held  me  within,  as  we  felt 


29G  STOLEN  WATERS. 

All  the  force  of  those  words.     "We  could  not  trust  ourselves 
To  speak  much  of  that  time,  and  each  moment  it  seemed 
More  and  more  that  I  never  could  give  up  the  dream 
That  had  been,  oh,  so  sweet  !  or  the  farewell  words  say- 
That  should  part  us  forever.     Oh  !  how  my  heart  ached, 
As  the  time  swift  approached  when  I  knew  he  must  go — 
Go  to  come  nevermore.     Oh,  why  must  it  be  so  ? 
God  help  me  to  bear  this  unutt'rable  woe ! 
We  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence  complete, 
His  arm  holding  me  tight,  his  face  pressed  to  my  cheek, 
Our  hearts  almost  bursting  with  anguish  so  vast, 
With  full  realization  that  this  was  the  last. 
Oh,  how.  bitter-sweet  these  moments  were  as  they  passed ! 
How  we  clung  to  each  other  with  pain  at  the  dread 
Ordeal  through  which  we  both  had  to  pass  yet. 
When  our  last  we  must  look  in  each  other's  dear  eyes, 
Where  despair  could  but  enter  as  hope  slowly  died, 
When  our  hands  must  be  clasped  for  the  last  time  on  earth, 
And  our  quivering  lips  speak  the  last  farewell  words. 

I  begged.him  to  tell  me  once  ere  we  should  part, 
That  he  loved  me  ;  but  only  more  close  to  his  heart 
Did  he  press  me,  and  murmured,  "  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  dear ; 
Do  not  ask  me ;   you  ought  not !  "    His  voice,  soft  and  clear 
In  general,  now  sounded  husky  and  strange. 
I  urged  him  no  longer — was  answered — 'twas  plain 
That  he  loved  me ;  I  needed  no  words  to  assure 
Me  of  what  I  were  foolish  to  doubt.     And  though  pure 
And  perfect  the  joy  would  have  been  from  his  lips 
The  sweet  words  once  to  hear,  I  did  not,  I  admit, 
Love  him  less  that  those  words  were  withheld.     Very  few 


STOLEN  WATERS.  297 

Would  temptation  so  strong  have  resisted,  I  knew. 
And  I  felt  very  thankful  my  love  was  so  true. 

It  was  time  he  should  go !     He  arose,  crossed  the  room, 
Returned,  and  beside  me  his  seat  he  resumed ; 
With  his  arm  around  me,  his  cheek  on  my  bowed  head, 
He  so  earnestly,  sweetly,  caressingly  said : 
"  I  will  tell  you,  dear,  how  it  shall  be  !     We'll  forget 
Everything  that  is  bad,  all  the  good  recollect. 
The  remembrance  of  all  that  is  sweet,  that  reflects 
Any  pleasure  to  us  when  the  past  we  recall, 
We  will  cherish  forever ;  and  we  will  let  all 
That's  bitter  or  painful  from  memory  fade, 
And  never  again  in  our  thoughts  have  a  place. 
Say  !  shall  it  be  thus  ?  "     And  I,  too  much  moved 
To  reply,  by  my  silence  alone  could  approve. 
For  a  moment  he  strained  me  again  very  close 
To  his  warm,  throbbing  heart,  where  he  held  me,  as  though 
He  could  not  let  me  go ;  then  he  once  more  arose, 
But  paused  'neath  the  chandelier,  taking  a  book 
From  the  table,  at  which  he  indeed  scarcely  looked  ; 
Then,  laying  it  down,  toward  me  turned  again ; 
I  had  also  arisen,  stood  leaning  against 
The  table  behind  liim — eyes  drooping,  downcast, 
And  a  sad,  bleeding  heart ;  both  my  hands  he  then  clasped, 
Leaned  his  brow  against  mine  and  looked  into  my  eyes ; 
They  were  brimful  of  tears,  and  as  he  turned  to  hide 
His  emotion,  I  said  to  him,  "  This  is  the  last, 
And  you  do  not  care  !  "     What  reproach  and  pain  passed 
Into  both  eye  and  tone,  as  he  said  in  reply 
Merely,  "  Do  not  talk  so  !  " 

But  time  fleetly  flew  by, 
13* 


298  STOLEN   WATERS. 

And  we  knew  he  must  go  ;  that  the  moment  had  come 
When  my  darling  must  leave  me  to  never  return. 
What  a  lifetime  of  anguish  was  crowded  in  those 
Few  moments  of  parting  !     Again  clasping  close 
The  hands  he  still  held,  stooped  and — for  the  first  time 
This  evening — with  warmth  pressed  his  dear  lips  to  mine, 
In  a  passionate,  lingering  kiss  of  farewell. 
What  love  and  despair  it  expressed,  who  can  tell  ? 
I  stood  where  he  left  me,  despondent,  cast  down, 
With  no  hope  in  my  heart,  and  with  eyes  on  the  ground, 
'Till  he  turned,  with  his  hand  on  the  door ;  then  I  raised 
My  eyes,  and  how  radiant  was  his  dear  face, 
With  the  strong  love  for  me  which  would  not  be  denied, 
In  a  moment  like  this,  all  expression  !     Shall  I 
Forget  ever  that  look  ?     Not  while  reason  and  life 
Shall  endure.     And  half-sobbing,  "  You  do  love  me,  then,5* 
I  sprang  toward  him  and  was  folded  again 
Within  an  embrace  so  impassioned  and  strong, 
As  my  fluttering  breath  to  inpede — and  how  long 
I  scarcely  can  tell.     But  he  murmured  at  last, 
"  Farewell,  and  God  bless  you !  "  released  me,  and  passed 
From  my  sight  ;  and  the  closed  door  shut  out  all  the  light, 
Joy,  and  hope  of  a  life  that  is  henceforth  a  blight, 
A  dreary  and  wearisome  blank.     Oh,  my  God ! 
""Have  pity,  I  pray  ;  give  relief  to  this  load, 
Which  is  more  than  I  ever  can  bear  ! 

Of  the  time 
Just  after  he  left  me  this  evening,  my  mind 
Eetains  no  recollection.     But  know  that  I  found 
Myself  on  the  sofa,  reclining  face  down, 
My  head  on  my  clasped  hands,  with  no  sob,  and  no  tear, 
But  my  heart  almost  breaking  with  bitter  and  drear 


STOLEN  WATERS.  299 

Hopeless  agony,  such  as  I  pray  I  may  ne'er 
Experience  more.     While  it  cried  in  its  pain, 
"  Oh  my  darling,  my  love,  come  back  to  me  again! 
Come  back,  oh,  come  back,  I  can  not  let  you  go !  " 
But  the  echoes  with  mocking  despair  answered, "  No, 
Nevermore,  nevermore!  " 

It  is  midnight !  and  sleep 
Refusing  her  watch  by  my  pillow  to  keep, 
Though  my  temples  are  throbbing  with  pain,  and  my  hand 
With  exhaustion  is  trembling,  and  with  no  command 
Of  my  fluttering  pulses,  I've  risen  to  write 
In  my  journal  these  faltering  lines,  and  unite 
With  my  last  sad  farewell  to  my  sorrowful  love, 
My  adieus  to  this  also ;  erecting  above 
This  grave  of  my  heart  the  one  blank,  brittle  stone 
Of  forgetfulness  ;  praying  for  what  one  alone 
Can  bestow,  peace  and  calm  to  the  storm  in  my  breast, 
A  rebuke  to  the  troubled  waves  never  at  rest. 

"  Stolen  waters  are  sweet !  "     But  the  most  abject  woe 
Lies  hidden  their  glittering  wavelets  below. 
No  more  shall  the  baneful  and  beautiful  draught 
Touch  the  lips,  which  before  have  so  eagerly  quaffed 
Of  the  bright,  sparkling  waters.     No  more  shall  I  know 
The  bliss  or  the  pain  it  so  long  has  bestowed, 
Love's  goblet  is  shattered  !  the  contents,  I  found 
Both  bitter  and  sweet,  are  all  spilled  on  the  ground. 
God  forgive  all  the  wrong  of  the  past,  and  again 
Unite  us,  where  all  are  eternally  friends. 


STOLEN     WATERS. 


PART    THIRD. 


"  What  matters  a  little  sorrow  if  the  end  is  bliss  ?  " 

Mrs.  Grky. 


"The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet ! " 


SHAKSPEARK. . 


Stolen  "Waters. 


$sri    &fchfc, 


BROOKLYN. 


August  13th,  1867. 


TUESDAY. 


Once  more  I  commence  a  new  journal !  and  close 
The  last,  leaving  it,  with  its  story  of  most 
Intense  pain,  pleasure,  passion,  and  letting  the  dear 
Inspirer  of  all  drop  from  out  my  life  here, 
As  one  that  has  never  existed.     Shall  it 
Be  thus  ?     Shall  I  not  any  mention  permit 
In  these  leaves  of  my  heart,  of  the  one  whose  dear  name 
Has  filled  the  last  volumes  with  beauty  and  pain, 
As  it  has  for  so  long  filled  my  heart  with  its  deep 
Thrilling  music,  so  passionate,  soft,  low,  and  sweet  ? 
I  can't  cease  to  think  of  him  often,  and  much ! 
I  know  not  that  I  wish  to  forget,  or  to  thrust 


304:  STOLEN  WATERS. 

The  record  aside  of  what  has  to  me  been 
So  delightful  in  anticipation,  and  in 
The  realization  and  sweet  retrospect. 
For  as  he  asked  that  I  would  alone  recollect 
All  the  good  in  the  past,  how  can  I  a  request 
So  exqiusitely  tendered  refuse  !     No !  I'll  cease 
To  think  of  the  sorrow,  suspense,  grief,  that  he's 
Oft  unconsciously  caused,  and  remember  alone 
The  supreme  happiness  and  delight  I  have  known 
In  his  presence ;  the  joy  of  expectancy,  too, 
And  fond  recollection.     For  'tis  indeed  true, 
Though  to  anticipation  I've  given  full  rein 
When  thinking  to  see  Mm,  my  hopes  ne'er  were  vain. 
But  the  realization  was  far  in  advance 
Of  all  I  had  fancied.     Though  followed  by  blank 
Disappointment,  extravagant  hopes  e'er  have  been 
In  all  other  matters,  but  never  with  him. 
On  our  interviews,  brief  and  infrequent,  in  fact, 
With  not  one  regret,  e'en,  I  now  can  look  back. 
All  has  been  perfect  harmony,  truth,  tenderness, 
And  how  much  I  have  lived,  I  can  never  express, 
In  the  few  fleeting  hours  we  together  have  passed. 
Years,  I  might  say,  for  their  recollection  will  last, 
Will  cling  to  and  bless  me  for  long  months  and  years, 
And  give  to  my  sad  heart  much  brightness  and  cheer, 
Replacing  with  pleasure  the  darkness  and  gloom. 

So  the  pictures  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  the  room 
Dedicated  exclusively  unto  my  love 
In  the  castle  of  memory,  cheery  above 
All  the  others,  the  most  sacred  chamber,  indeed, 
Of  my  heart,  shall  all  brightness  and  loveliness  be  j 


STOLEN  WATERS.  305 

With  the  richest  and  softest  hues  all  shall  be  tinged, 

With  lustre  most  sweet  and  pure  all  glittering, 

With  the  cord  of  eternal  remembrance  all  hung, 

By  the  hand  of  undying  love,  fond  affection. 

They  shall  be  scenes  of  hope  all  fulfilled,  friendship  true ; 

Of  scrupulous  honor,  sincerity  too, 

Temptations  resisted,  and  faith  tried  and  proved, 

Confidence  ne'er  betrayed,  and  love,  constant  and  quite 

Involuntary  and  enduring.     The  light 

Shed  by  stars  of  esteem,  true  respect,  and  regard 

Shining  over  the  whole,  added  charm  to  impart 

To  the  pictures  so  fascinating  in  themselves, 

Which  must  ever  be  dearer  to  me  than  aught  else. 

"  '  Tis  sweet  to  remember !  I  would  not  forego 

The  charm  which  the  past  o'er  the  present  can  throw." 

And  so  I  will  not  put  him  out  of  my  heart, 

And  my  heart  and  life's  journal.     I'll  try — although  hard 

Is  the  lesson  to  learn — him  to  never  regret ; 

But  my  life's  sweetest  dream  I  must  fail  to  forget 

Long  as  being  endures — the  bright  dream,  that  to  one 

Of  my  temperament  only  once  ever  comes, 

"  The  sole  love  that  life  gave  to  me."     It  is  true 

"  There  are  loves  in  some  lives  for  which  time  can  renew 

All  that  time  may  destroy.     Lives  there  are  in  love,  too, 

Which  cling  to  one  faith,  and  die  with  it,  nor  move 

Though  earthquakes  may  shatter  the  shrine!"    and    such 

love 
I  have  given  to  him !  If  I  would,  I  cannot 
Forget  him.     My  journal  would  be,  too,  without 
Interest  to  me,  should  his  dear  name  cease  to  find 
A  place  in  its  pages.     If  I  through  all  time 


306  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Shut  him  out  of  my  life,  shall  I  also  deny 
Him  a  place  in  my  heart,  and  heart-record  ?     Shall  I, 
When  he  said  he  would  never  forget  me,  do  less 
Than  remember  him,  too  ? 

Much  surprised,  I  confess 
I  was,  some  days  since,  when  in  town  on  Broadway 

To  meet  Mrs. ,  his  wife.     I  had  not,  till  that  day, 

For  years  seen  her  ;  and  then  I  should  not,  I  dare  say, 

Have  noticed  her,  had  she  not  given  a  glance 

Of  recognition  unmistakable,  as 

We  passed.     She  was  looking  indeed  very  nice  ! 

Of  course  that  little  incident  did  not  suffice 

To  make  me  any  happier.     Only  brought  back 

Old  times  with  more  force,  and  made  me  very  sad. 

Last  Sabbath,  in  church,  when  I  found  the  first  hymn. 
"  June  12th,  '64,"  was  traced  on  the  margin. 
How  strongly  that  also  the  past  did  recall ! 
And  the  day  when  'twas  written,  more  plainly  than  all : 
Sitting  there,  in  that  beautiful  church,  on  that  bright 
Lovely  morning  in  June,  Mr.  S.  in  his  quiet 
Deep  voice  the  words  reading — above  me  the  face 
Ever  dear,  dearly  loved  even  then — all  the  place 
Hushed  to  silence,  unbroken  except  by  the  low 
Thrilling  tones  of  the  reader ;  then  softly  and  slow 
His  voice  sang  the  beautiful  words,  and  made  them 
Sweeter  far  than  before.     It  all  came  back  again, 
As  the  words  so  familiar  now  fell  on  my  ear, 
•  While  my  eyes  slowly  filled  with  such  sad,  bitter  tears. 
I  have  not,  until  then,  been  at  church  since  that  time 
When  that  hymn  has  been  sung.     And  now,  when  I  am 
trying 


STOLEN  WATERS.  307 

To  forget,  in  a  measure,  all  this,  comes  to  taunt  me 

With  "  bliss  that's  remembered."     How  he  and  his  haunt 

me  ! 
Fate  seems  to  forbid  my  forgetting.     Far  more 
Do  I  love  him  than  ever  I  have  done  before, 
Now  I  know  that  to  me  he  forever  is  lost. 
The  preacher  that  day  said,  when  any  one  was 
Peculiarly  tried,  or  had  any  great  grief, 
They  might  be  assured  there  was  some  glad  relief, 
Some  great  blessing  in  store  for  them ;  as  tried  and  proved 
Was  an  article  ere  it  was  ready  for  use. 
It  comforted  me  very  much.     And  as  I 
Have,  God  knows  !  been  of  late  indeed  fearfully  tried, 
It  may  be  that  something's  still  waiting  for  me, 
To  make  up  for  the  pain  I've  endured  recently. 
I  hope  so,  and  that  it  may  come  speedily. 

To-night,  at  the  time  he  came  one  week  ago, 
I  of  course  thought  of  him,  as  I  have  done  also 
Through  to-day,  and  in  fact  every  day ;  but  this  eve 
My  dear  Nettie  was  in,  and  it  passed,  I  believe, 
For  a  very  few  moments,  quite  out  of  my  mind, 
'Till  I  looked  at  my  watch,  found  'twas  just  half-past  nine, 
The  hour  of  our  parting !     At  that  very  time, 
Only  one  week  ago,  on  my  lips  he'd  just  pressed 
His  kiss  of  farewell — his  last  lingering  caress, 
The  sweetest  that  man  to  a  woman  e'er  gave ! 
And  my  heart  and  my  pulses  stopped  beating,  as  wave 
After  wave  of  remembrance  rolled  over  my  soul, 
Recalling  of  that  bitter  evening,  the  whole. 
Stood  still  with  grief,  pain,  and  unbounded  regret. 
"  '  Twas  sad  that  our  parting  should  be !  "  sad  but  yet 


308  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Inevitable.     And  perhaps  better  then 
Than  later.     It  must  have  come  some  time,  and  when 
Less  than  now  should  I  love  him  ?  for  each  added  year, 
Could  but  have  made  him  to  my  heart  still  more  dear, 
And  the  parting  yet  harder  to  bear.     The  last  week 
Has,  God  knows,  been  to  me  a  most  sad  one,  indeed ! 
I  have  lived  through  it,  though,  as  I  must  do  all  those 
Yet  to  come.     Oh,  how  many  before  life  shall  close  ! 
T  am  yet,  oh,  so  young  !     Life  to  me  looks  so  long  ! 
Twenty-two,  and  its  brightness  and  beauty  all  gone ! 


August  2d,  18G8. 

Almost  a  year,  since  I  have  opened  this  book  ! 
And  how  has  it  passed  ?     One  would  think  but  to  look 
At  my  external  life,  that  'twas  calm  and  serene, 
"Would  not  deem  I  was  mourning  a  bright,  broken  dream. 
Very  quiet  indeed,  has  my  outward  life  seemed, 
And  as  to  my  true  life,  that  hidden  within 
The  depths  of  my  heart,  that's  diversified  been. 
Some  days  have  been  very  unhappy.     Days  when 
The  winds  and  the  waves  my  frail  barque  have  o'erwhelmed, 
When  I  found  it  impossible  quite,  to  suppress 
The  sad,  intense  longing  for  one  dear  caress 
From  the  lips  loved  so  well ;  for  his  presence,  a  sight 
Of  the  one  dear,  dear  face,  which  would  bring  joy  and  light 
To  my  poor,  aching  heart ;  for  a  touch  of  his  warm, 
Loving  hand,  and  the  clasp  of  his  strong,  tender  arm. 
When  some  slight  trifling  thing  would  bring  all  back  again 
With  such  force  to  my  mind,  it  would  seem  to  me  then 


STOLEN  WATERS.  309 

That  I  never  could  bear  it.     And  yet,  I  believe 

That  the  days  which  are  saddest  are  those  that  succeed 

To  a  night  when  my  dreams  have  all  been  of  him.     Nights 

That  came  but  too  oft — dreams  which  but  tantalized. 

I  could  thoughts  of  him  in  some  measure  control ; 

But  over  my  dreams  I  had  none  ;  and  my  soul 

They  have  made  very  sad,  many  times.     Not  a  day 

In  this  long,  weary  year,  now,  thank  God  !  passed  away, 

But  I've  thought  of  him  much.     Not  a  night,  but  my  last 

Thought  and  prayer  was  for  him.     How  has  he  the  year 

passed  ? 
Oh,  would  that  I  knew  !     Yet  the  burden  I've  borne 
Philosophically  on  the  whole,  and  have  known 
Some  pleasant  if  no  happy  hours,  e'en  in  this 
Most  desolate  year,  dreary  as  my  life  is. 

To  the  "  old  church  "  last  Sabbath  a  visit  I  paid  ; 
But  I  did  not  see  there  the  one  dear,  handsome  face 
Whose  eyes  used  to  meet  mine  so  kindly.     The  place 
And  service,  without  him,  were  quite  incomplete  ; 
And  I'd  only  the  pleasure  of  retrospect  sweet, 
To  compensate  me  for  the  lost  charm. 

August  seems 
A  fatal  month  to  me  ;  and  what  will  this  bring  ? 
From  Colonel  Allair  I'm  expecting  this  week 
A  visit.     It  long  has  been  talked  of,  indeed, 
And  now  the  time  seems  to  have  come.     I  am  much 
Anticipating  from  his  stay,  and  I  trust 
We  may  with  each  other  some  pleasant  hours  spend. 
Oh,  would  'twas  my  darling  instead  of  my  friend/ 
My  "  other  John  "  !     Were  that  the  case,  though,  I  fear 
I  should  not  so  tranquilly  write  of  it  here. 


310  STOLEN  WATERS. 

But  that  never,  oh,  never  can  be  !     One  more  year 

Of  my  life  is  now  gone.     One  year  nearer  are  we 

To  the  meeting  eternal.     How  joyful  'twill  be! 

I've  been  readiug  a  book  about  heaven,  of  late, 

A  beautiful  thing,  too  !      And  as  it  portrayed 

The  reunion  of  friends,  it  occurred  to  me  then, , 

Though  I  oft  think  of  meeting  my  love  there,  to  spend 

A  happy  eternity  with  him,  the  thought 

That  we  may  be  in  separate  places  has  not 

Ever  entered  my  soul.     And  when  that  suggests  it, 

Does  my  mind  for  one  moment  a  place  there  permit 

The  thought  to  retain  ?     No ;  with  all  of  my  heart 

I  believe,  that  as  here  we  are  kept  far  apart, 

There  we  shall  be  united  in  all  the  sweet  bonds 

Of  friendship  and  love— love  perfected  and  fond. 

I  trust  it  to  Jesus  who  died  for  ns  both  ! 

And  it  is  very  sweet  unto  Him  all  to  owe, 

And  feel  He's  not  only  the  power,  but  wish, 

This  loved  one  of  mine  to  bring  safe  into  His 

Precious  fold.    And  I  pray  God,  through  Him,  that  if  none 

Of  my  morning  and  evening  petitions  shall  come 

To  His  ear,  and  find  gracious  acceptance,  save  one, 

That  my  prayer  for  my  love,  from  a  full,  penitent, 

And  sometimes  aching  heart,  may  like  fragrant  incense 

Ascend  even  unto  the  foot  of  the  Throne, 

And  an  answer  in  blessings  on  him  shower  down. 

God  sees  not  as  man  sees !     And  Christ,  who  has  borne 

Our  weak  human  nature,  our  weakness  has  known ; 

He  uses  mysterious  means  to  work  out 

His  designs,  and  bring  his  wise  purpose  about. 

And  may  I  not  hope  that  what  all  the  world  might 

Think  a  serious  error,  at  least,  if  not  quite 


STOLEN   WATERS.  311 

A  crime,  may  the  means  be  of  bringing  to  Christ 
One  wandering  lamb  ?     Oh  !  how  happy  and  glad 
'Twould  make  me,  to  think  that  my  influence  had, 
Under  God,  been  the  means  of  directing  the  feet 
Of  one  so  beloved  into  paths  that  shall  lead 
To  the  gates  of  the  city  eternal.     God  keep 
My  darling  through  all  of  life's  wild,  stormy  blasts, 
And  bring  us  together  with  Him,  safe  at  last ! 


August  16th,  1868. 

SUNDAY. 

Since  I  last  wrote  the  Colonel  has  been  here,  and  gone, 
And  I  on  my  lips  wear  his  troth-kiss,  and  on 
My  finger  his  ring  !     Am  I  happy  in  this 
New  relation  ?     I  scarcely  can  tell,  I  confess ! 
I  like  him  very  much,  very  much  indeed !     More, 
I  think,  than  I  have  any  one  heretofore, 
Excepting  my  love  of  the  sweet  olden  time  ; 
And  I  do  not  know  as  that  passion  of  mine 
Interferes  in  the  least  with  the  strong,  warm  regard 
Which  I  now  have  for  John.     The  place  held  in  my  heart 
By  my  old  love 's  peculiar  and  sacred  to  him ; 
No  other  can  ever  approach  it.     Within 
That  chamber  no  footsteps  may  enter.     The  door 
Is  fast,  and  my  love  holds  the  key.     Nevermore 
Shall  it  open,  'till  life's  joys  and  sorrows  are  o'er. 
And  yet,  my  attachment  to  John  is,  1  think, 
Strong  enough  to  make  me  unto  him  everything 


312  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  he  may  desire ;  and  he  feels  it  is  so. 

Our  engagement  is  only  conditional,  though, 

And  if  either  should  think,  in  the  future,  'twould  be 

Best  it  should  not  be  consummated,  why  we 

Are  to  make  it  known  instantly. 

He  was  with  me 
Scarcely  more  than  a  week.     The  first  few  days  passed  on 
Quite  fleetly  to  us,  in  reviewing  our  long 
Correspondence  so  pleasant.     But  one  day,  he'd  been 
In  town  since  the  morning,  and,  waiting  for  him, 
Just  at  twilight,  was  down  in  the  parlors,  and  leaning 
My  head  on  the  mantel-piece,  stood  idly  dreaming 
Of  what — I  indeed  scarcely  know  ;  but  I  must 
In  my  reverie  have  been  absorbed  very  much, 
For  I  heard  not  his  ring,  nor  his  step  in  the  hall, 
Nor  the  opening  door — in  fact,  was  not  at  all 
Awai-e  of  his  presence,  until  some  one's  arms 
Were  around  me  with  passionate  pressure  and  warm, 
And  my  head  to  a  manly  breast  gently  was  drawn. 
Too  surprised  to  be  very  indignant,  I  raised 
My  eyes,  and  o'er  me  there  was  bending  a  face, 
With  a  look  in  it  only  one  passion  can  trace. 
I  said  nothing,  but  would  have  withdrawn  from  his  clasp, 
But  he  held  me  the  closer,  his  heart  throbbing  fast 
'Neath  my  cheek,  which  was  resting  against  ^t,  and  said, 
"  This,  dear,  is  the  best  place  for  your  weary  head  !  " 
Then  rapidly,  eloquently,  he  went  on 
To  tell  me  how  dear  to  him  I  had  been  lone: : 
How  sad  would  his  life  be  without  me ;  how  strong 
His  desire  was  to  shield  me  from  all  of  the  storms 
Of  life,  which  had  hitherto  visited  me 
With  such  roughness ;  how  kind,  and  how  tender  he'd  be. 


STOLEN   WATERS.  313 

And  looking  up  into  his  true,  honest  eyes, 

I  felt  that  in  his  hands  my  happiness  I 

Could  give,  and  the  trust  would  be  never  betrayed ; 

And  the  answer  he  wished  for  I  readily  gave. 

In  a  year  he  will  come  for  me,  if  before  then 

Neither  think  it  were  better  he  should  not.     And  when 

He  bade  me  farewell,  'twas  with  tears  of  regret 

And  sorrow  I  saw  his  departure.     And  yet, 

I  thought  of  a  parting  but  one  year  ago, 

And  felt,  for  the  first  time,  it  could  not  be  so — 

The  conditional  promise  could  never  be  kept. 

But  that  feeling  soon  passed,  and  I'm  now  quite  content, 

And  think  that  my  life  with  him  will  be,  indeed, 

A  tranquil  and  happy  existence,  and  lead 

My  heart  into  safe,  pleasant  paths.     And  to-night, 

I  thank  God  for  His  goodness,  and  pray  that  aright 

I  may  use  my  strong  influence  over  the  man 

Whose  happiness  now  has  been  placed  in  my  hands. 


October  10th,  18G8. 


SATURDAY. 


Scarcely  two  months  have  sped,  and  already  do  I 
Beneath  my  bonds  chafe.     My  heart  already  cries, 
That  it  never  can  be !  and  beside  me  there  lies 
A  letter,  signed,  sealed,  whose  contents  shall  dissolve 
The  engagement  on  which  we  so  lately  resolved  ; 
And  I  wonder,  now,  how  I  could  ever  have  felt 
That  I  could  the  marriage  vows  take  on  myself, 
14 


314  STOLEN  WATERS. 

And  promise  to  love  any  other  but  him 
Who  must  still  be  my  dearest,  as  ever  he's  been. 
For  John  I've  indeed  the  most  sincere  and  true 
Attachment,  and  know  well  that  he  loves  me,  too. 
And  yet,  my  heart  shrinks  from  the  intimacy 
Of  married  life,  even  with  him.     And  think  he 
Will  feel,  as  I  do,  'tis  but  justice  and  kindness, 
Thus  early  to  sever  the  ties  which  now  bind  us. 
I  suppose  my  decision  will  give  him  much  pain, 
And  so  it  does  me ;  for  I,  too,  hoped,  in  vain, 
Together,  a  bright,  happy  future  to  spend. 
And  it  hurts  me,  indeed,  to  cause  grief  to  my  friend ; 
Yet,  I  feel  that  it  will  be  as  nothing  compared 
To  a  life-time  of  sorrow,  the  grief  and  despair 
Of  within  his  arms  holding  a  cold,  loveless  wife ; 
That  the  promise,  if  kept,  could  but  make  us  for  life 
Both  wretched,  indeed !     For  one  face  ever  must 
Between  us  have  come,  and  thus,  marring  for  us 
All  happiness,  rendered  our  fancied  bliss  naught 
But  a  mockery.     Feeling  thus,  I,  of  course,  thought 
It  but  right  to  tell  him  without  further  delay ; 
And  therefore  I  wrote  him  a  letter  to-day. 

'Tis  best  so !     Not  sufficiently  large  is  my  heart 
To  contain  more  than  one  love  ;  for  every  part 
Is  filled  to  o'erflowing  with  that.     I  feel,  too, 
That  'tis  sweeter,  far  sweeter  to  love  him,  my  true, 
Only  love,  with  no  hope  of  again  seeing  him 
While  life  lasts,  with  no  thought  of  there  ever  being 
Between  us  one  sweet,  tender  tie,  than  to  be 
"Worshipped  by  any  other.     The  memory  to  me, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  315 

Of  his  love,  is  far  more  than  the  most  warm,  heartfelt, 

Passionate  adoration  of  any  one  else. 

With  such  feelings,  I  can't  wrong  a  friend  that's  so  dear, 

By  a  ruined  heart  giving  to  him,  or  a  mere 

Pretence  of  affection.     So  sorry  am  I, 

So  sorry,  that  he  should  have  ever  a  tie 

Between  us  more  close  than  warm  friendship  besought 

Or  desired ;  and  so  sorry,  too,  that  I  should  not 

Seen  at  first  that  his  hopes  could  be  ne'er  realized. 

Still,  I  trust  that  his  love  not  so  deeply  does  lie, 

That  it  is  not  so  lasting  and  strong  as  he  thinks ; 

That,  before  many  years  their  swift  flight  shall  have  winged, 

He  will  find  one  more  worthy  of  such  a  dear,  kind 

Companion  as  he  would  be  ;  who,  through  all  time, 

Every  craving  shall  satisfy  of  his  true,  warm, 

Loving  heart.     And  who  shall  not  alone  fill  his  arms, 

But  his  mind  and  his  soul. 

Thus  once  more  I  become 
All  my  love's,  with  no  thought  but  for  him — my  dear  one  ! 


December  18th,  18G8. 

FRIDAY. 

'Tis  with  saddest  of  sad  hearts  I  sit  down  to  write 
A  few  words  in  my  journal's  still  pages  to-night. 
Such  sorrowful  news  as  to-day  I've  received  ! 
This  morning  a  paper  was  handed  to  me, 
Addressed  in  my  love's  well-known  hand.     Oh,  how  long 
It  had  been  since  I'd  seen  it  before !     What  a  strong 


316  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Thrill  fluttered  my  pulse  as  I  recognized  it ! 

Was  so  happy  and  glad  about  it,  I  admit 

That  I  never  once  thought  it  was  strange  he  should  break 

In  that  manner  our  long,  cruel  silence.     With  haste 

I  tore  off  the  wrapper,  and  looked,  but  in  vain, 

For  a  written  word  which  should  the  sending  explain. 

But  when  carelessly  glancing  its  columns  adown, 

I  observed  a  marked  paragraph,  which  I  soon  found 

A  notice  to  be  of  the  death  of  his  wife. 

I  scarcely  more  shocked  have  been,  in  my  whole  life ! 

How  my  heart  aches  for  him !     How  it  has  ached  all  day! 

How  grief  stricken  he  must  be !     Oh,  would  in  some  way 

I  could  give  to  him  comfort.     His  dear  children,  too — 

His  sweet  little  Bertie !     Oh,  what  will  he  do 

Without  his  own  loving  mamma.     'Tis,  indeed, 

"Very  hard  for  them  all.     And  it  makes  my  heart  bleed, 

When  I  think  of  how  lonely  they  must  be  to-night. 

God,  I  pray,  cheer  their  sad  hearts  ! 

Of  fever  she  died, 
After  scarce  a  week's  illness.     I  can't  realize 
It  were  possible  that  her  fair  face  should  lie  now, 
White  and  still,  'neath  the  snows  of  December.     Oh,  how 
Can  he  bear  it  ? — my  darling !     'Tis  sad,  oh,  so  sad — 
This  most  bitter  trial  he  ever  has  had. 

I  wrote  him  this  evening  a  few  lines  of  deep, 
Heartfelt  sympathy ;  feeling  I  never  could  sleep 
Until  I  had  told  him  how  truly  I  grieved 
At  his  sorrow.     And  wrote,  with  the  earnest  belief 
It  was  right  that  I  should.     Jesus  pity  and  bless, 
And  to  his  troubled  spirit  send  cheer  and  sweet  rest  I 


STOLEN  WATERS.  317 


December  31s£,  18G8. 

THURSDAY. 

The  last  day  of  the  year  !  I  have  been  looking  o'er 
The  journal  I've  kept  for  six  long  years,  or  more ; 
And  I  could  not  help  thinking  that,  were  I  to  read 
The  same  in  a  book,  I  should  think  it,  indeed, 
Over-drawn,  and  extravagant,  too.     Yet,  God  knows 
That  I  felt  every  word  from  beginning  to  close. 
Felt  bitterly,  sweetly,  the  fullest  extent 
Of  what  was  expressed.     And  a  nature  intense 
As  mine  is,  could  scarcely  feel  less,  influenced 
By  the  same  circumstances,  I'm  sure !     As  I  knew 
'Twould  be  no  criticism  subjected  unto 
More  severe  than  my  own,  I  have  freely  expressed 
All  my  heart's  bliss  and  pain,  happiness  and  unrest. 

The  old  year  is  dying  !     The  moments  speed  fast ! 
As  they  vanish  away  among  things  of  the  past, 
My  thoughts  backward  roll  to  one  bright  afternoon, 
Just  five  years  ago — five  long  years !  yet  how  soon 
Have  they  slipped  from  beneath  our  oft-faltering  feet — 
When  my  heart  the  first  time  wildly  throbbed  'neath  tho 

cheek 
Of  one  who's  become  since  so  dear ;  when  my  lips 
Felt  the  pressure  of  his  in  his  first  tender  kiss, 
And  I  eagerly  tasted  the  first  drops  of  bliss, 
In  the  goblet  of  love  which  his  ready  hand  raised 
To  my  parched,  thirsty  lips.     Oh,  how  sweet  was  the  taste ! 


318 


STOLEN  WATERS. 


Happy  then  in  the  present,  so  happy  to  see 

That  I  filled  all  his  thoughts  for  the  moment,  that  he 

"Was  all  I  had  deemed  him — a  gentleman  true. 

Not  thinking,  or  caring  indeed,  then,  this  new, 

Sweet  feeling  to  analyze,  reckless  of  what 

The  future  might  bring  forth — in  fact,  with  no  thought 

That  moment  beyond,  and  delirious,  too, 

With  the  joy  of  his  presence,  the  glad  moments  flew 

But  too  swiftly,  and  brought  our  first  parting.     And  then 

Succeeded  the  eve's  dreamy  retrospect,  when 

I  sat  with  my  hand  o'er  my  eyes  tightly  pressed, 

Recalling  with  pleasure  each  offered  caress, 

With  rapturous  thrill  eveiy  word  of  the  man 

Who,  in  truth,  even  then,  held  my  heart  in  his  hand. 

And  nobly  has  he  used  the  power  possessed. 

True,  indeed,  has  he  been  to  his  trust.     Kindest,  best, 

Most  generous  ever.     What  wonder,  above 

All  others,  I  honor,  admire  him,  and  love ! 

What  wonder  that  I  joyous  mention  should  make 

Of  each  of  these  glad  anniversary  days, 

As  the  untiring  wheels  of  time  roll  them  along  ? 

What  wonder  that  sweet  recollection,  with  strong, 

Fond  emotion,  should  linger  around  them,  each  year 

But  rendering  them  indeed  all  the  more  dear  ? 

Oh,  blessed  be  memory !     "  There  is  no  time 

Like  the  old  time,  no  love  like  the  old  love."     I  find, 

In  the  whole  of  my  world,  not  a  man  who  is  like 

Unto  my  love  !     God  bless  and  preserve  him  to-night ! 


STOLEN  WATERS.  319 

December  3\st,  1869. 

FRIDAY. 

"  The  day  of  all  days  "  to  me,  my  wedding  day  I 
It  is  now  six  p.m.  ;  in  two  hours  I  shall  say, 
God  willing,  the  words  that  forever  will  bind 
Me  to  him,  my  heart's  idol,  for  such  a  long  time, 
My  own  love  and  darling !     And  sitting  here,  clad 
In  my  pure  bridal  robes,  I  am  making  the  glad, 
Last  record  in  my  little  journal,  which  has 
Been  a  brief  one,  indeed  ;  for  since  it  was  commenced 
I've  no  heart  had  for  writing.     But  this  blissful  end 
Compensates  for  all  of  the  pain  gone  before. 

'Tis  a  night  of  deep  beauty  !     I  look  without,  o'er 
My  shoulder,  and  see  the  full  moon,  large  and  bright, 
Shining  calm  and  serene  from  the  far  East ;  while  light, 
Fleecy  clouds  hover  near  it  and  o'er  it ;  but  do 
Not  its  brilliance  obscure.     But  a  dark  one's  there,  too ; 
Sailing  near,  and  yet  nearer ;  and  if  that  should  flit 
Over,  will  it  not  hide  with  completeness  all  its 
Matchless  beauty  and  brilliance  ?     With  interest  deep 
I  watch  it  move  slowly  along ;  now  it  sweeps 
Over  every  part;  but  the  radiance  Still 
Escapes,  and  the  ether  surrounding  it  gilds. 
In  the  cloud  there  are  rifts,  too,  through  which  I  its  calm, 
Silvery  beauty  still  see.     Now  it  rises,  with  grand, 
Imperial  triumph,  above  the  dark  and 
Most  envious  clouds  shining  forth  once  again, 
With  its  lustre  undimmed,  and  its  beauty  unchanged. 


320  STOLEN  WATERS. 

I  turn  from  that  picture,  and  look  within  !     There 
I  find  perfect  happiness  !     And,  though  aware 
That  it  by  passing  clouds  may,  and  must  be,  indeed, 
Temporarily  dimmed,  yet  I  trust  there  may  be 
Rifts,  through  which  I  may  still  its  bright  radiance  see. 
That  they  will  soon  pass,  and  its  brilliancy  leave 
Untarnished,  unchanged  ! 

This  is  my  "  Prologue  "  brief, 
To  what  I've  to  write. 

Just  one  week  since,  to-night, 
In  the  parlor  I  sat  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
Idly  rocking  and  dreaming,  with  cheek  in  my  hand, 
Of  present  and  past,  when  the  bell  loudly  rang. 
My  position  I  still  did  not  change,  till  the  door 
Was  thrown  wide,  and  a  gentleman,  crossing  the  floor, 
Paused  by  me.     I  looked  up,  and  with  rapturous  joy 
Recognized  at  one  glance  my  own  love !  my  dear  boy, 
Who  for  more  than  two  years  I  have  never  once  seen. 
Oh,  how  glad  was  my  heart !     How  entire  and  supreme 
The  delight  with  which  once  more  I  felt  his  dear  arm 
Around  me,  his  kiss  on  my  lips,  long  and  warm  ! 
And  how  happy  was  he  to  again  hold  me  thus ! 
Oh,  that  moment  alone  quite  compensated  us 
For  the  anguish  of  parting,  the  longing,  and  grief 
Of  the  past  two  sad  years.     Neither  of  us  could  speak 
For  a  while ;  then  he  drew  me  with  him  to  a  seat, 
And  as  we  sat  down  side  by  side,  he  to  me 
Said  tenderly,  softly,  and  how  wistfully — 
"  I  have  come  for  you,  dear,  and  I  want  you  at  once, 
Entirely,  forever !    And  nothing  more  must 
Ever  separate  us.     And  no  longer  can  I 
Live  apart  from  you  ;  every  day  want  you  in  my 


STOLEN  WATERS.  321 

Now  desolate  home,  every  hour  in  my  heart. 
You  are  all  mine  !  my  darling,  my  wife,  are  you  not  ?  " 
I  against  the  dear  hand  which  I  held  laid  my  cheek, 
And  looked  up  the  dear  eyes  true  and  loving  to  meet, 
And  the  answer  he  wished  in  my  face  let  him  read. 
No  words  were  required ;  for  too  long  had  he  known 
That  my  heart's  every  fibre  for  him  throbbed  alone. 
And  as  his  lips  met  mine  in  the  lingering  kiss 
Of  betrothal,  I  thought  that  no  other  caress 
Was  ever  so  sweet. 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell, 
As  the  darkening  shades  swiftly  gathered  and  fell, 
All  that  I'd  for  so  long  from  his  lips  wished  to  hear. 
How  much  and  how  dearly  he'd  loved  me  for  years ; 
How  it  had  sometimes  almost  overcome  him ; 
How  hard  to  repress  words  of  love  it  had  been, 
When  they  trembled  on  his  very  lips ;  how  with  pain 
He'd  allowed  many  letters  of  mine  to  remain 
Unanswered,  from  feeling  he  never  could  trust 
Himself  to  reply ;  and  how  bowed  to  the  dust 
He  was  at  our  last  bitter  parting. 

How  great, 
And  exceeding  the  joy  which  all  this  to  me  gave  I 
And  to  Him  who  bestows  upon  us  all  good  gifts, 
How  thankful  I  felt  that  such  full,  perfect  bliss, 
Was  at  length  me  accorded — my  most  ardent  wish 
For  long  years,  and  the  very  desire  of  my  heart. 
And  not  what  I  wished  for  alone,  He  imparts — 
The  boon  of  his  love — but  He  grants  me,  beside, 
What  I  never  dared  think  of,  the  privilege,  right, 
The  remainder  of  life  with  my  dear  one  to  spend. 
14* 


322  STOLEN  WATERS. 

That  was  one  week  ago  !     Every  evening  since  then 
He's  been  with  me ;  and  we're  to  be  married  to-night ! 
He  thought  we  had  been  kept  apart  too  long,  quite, 
To  delay  any  more,  and  would  give  me  but  one 
More  brief  week  of  freedom.     Nor  did  I,  I  own, 
Desire  it.      These  chains  are  of  silk,  do  not  fret, 
And  bondage  to  him  is,  I  think,  sweeter  yet 
Than  the  most  entire  liberty. 

What  a  soft  light 
Filled  his  eyes  all  the  eve !     And  my  thoughts  then  took 

flight 
To  those  beautiful  Sabbaths  six  years  ago,  when 
We  both  sat  in  church,  and  he  down  to  me  sent 
Such  sweet,  thrilling  glances — like,  but  not  the  same. 
And  he  loves  me  !     My  heart  the  sweet  music  again 
And  again  doth  repeat.     I  am  his,  he  is  mine. 
His  heart  warmly  beats  for  me,  mine  through  all  time 
Throbs  for  him  truly,  tenderly.     Friends  here  we  are, 
Friends  we  shall  be  in  heaven ;  loving  here,  loving  far 
Through  the  endless  eternity.     He  will  soon  come 
To  leave  me  not  'till  the  words  making  us  one — 
As  we've  long  been  in  heart — shall  be  spoken.     That  voice 
So  exquisite  I  once  more  shall  hear  ;  meet  the  eyes 
Whose  glance  is  so  loving  and  true ;  feel  the  warm, 
Thrilling  clasp  of  his  hand,  the  embrace  of  his  arm, 
The  touch  so  caressing  of  his  bearded  cheek, 
And  the  pressure  of  his  mustached  lips,  as  they  meet 
My  own  in  the  sweetest  of  kisses.     And  this 
Is  not  "stolen  waters,"  but  God-given  bliss  ! 
And  how  can  any  person,  who  ever  a  kiss 
Of  love  has  received,  think  of  yielding  their  lips 


STOLEN  WATERS.  323 

To  passion's  profane  touch,  formality's  cold, 

Or  friendship's  indifferent  pressure.     I  own 

J"  cannot.     And  from  any  one's  kisses  I  shrink 

When  he's  left  a  caress  on  my  lips.     For  I  think 

A  kiss  sacred  and  very  expressive,  and  it 

Should  be  neither  profaned  nor  abused.     I  admit 

I  like  kisses,  but  not  a  profusion,  or  those 

That  are  cold  and  indifferent.     Though  I  suppose 

My  ideas  are  somewhat  peculiar — in  fact, 

Have  been  told  so — I'd  not  have  them  changed.     And  am 

glad 
He  the  luxury  uses  so  rarely,  indeed, 
That  'tis  not  rendered  common.     Am  glad,  too,  that  he 
Js  reserved ;  that  he's  not  prodigal  in  professing 
Attachment  to  me ;  is  not  free  in  expressing 
His  strong,  full  affection. 

I  love  him,  he  me  ! 
I  with  my  whole  heart,  my  might,  mind,  strength ;  and  be 
As  I  wish  to  be  loved.     And  how  thankful  I  am, 
Every  day,  every  hour  of  my  life,  that  the  man 
On  whom  I  have  lavished  the  first,  only  love 
Of  which  I  am  capable,  who  has  above 
All  others  for  long  been  enshrined  in  my  heart's 
Sweet  "  holy  of  holies,"  who,  "  be  the  days  dark 
Or  bright,"  must  abide  there  forever,  is  one 
That  is  worthy  of  all ;  a  rare  man,  who's  become 
More  honored  and  trusted  each  time  we  have  met. 
With  whom  a  familiar  acquaintance,  instead 
Of  breaking  the  charm,  or  of  weakening  the  depth 
Of  my  passion  's  enhanced  it  a  thousand  fold,  swept 
Aside  every  barrier,  rendered  it  yet 


324  STOLEN   WATERS. 

More  strong,  deep,  enduring,  and  shown  him  to  me 
The  one  love  of  my  life — a  man,  manly — to  be 
My  own,  here  and  hereafter. 

The  name  that  I  chose, 
When  I  sent  my  first  note  to  him  so  long  ago, 
How  pertinent  'twas  !     "  Sitter-sweet  !  "     Seems  almost 
Prophetic.     Impulsively  chosen,  no  thought 
Except  for  the  present,  no  glance  into  what 
Was  then  dim  futurity,  no  care,  indeed, 
For  what  fruit  might  grow  from  the  rashly  sown  seed. 
A  very  child  was  I,  dependent  on  each 
Passing  moment  for  happiness;  joyous  or  grieved, 
Glad  or  sorry,  as  by  influences  around 
I  was  swayed.     Not  reflecting  once,  as  to  the  wrong 
Or  right  of  the  step  I  was  taking,  and  not 
One  thought  of  with  what  results  it  might  be  fraught. 
By  the  sweet,  witching  glances  of  his  soft,  dark  eye 
Fascinated,  bewildered  by  the  sweet,  dreamy  smile, 
Which  not  alone  wreathed  his  lips,  dimpled  his  cheek, 
But  gave  added  beauty  and  softness  to  each 
Pine  feature  of  his  speaking  face  ;  and  to  him, 
Looking  up,  as  unto  a  superior  being  ; 
List'ning  week  after  week  to  the  magic  of  his 
Lovely  voice,  he  a  spell  far  too  strong  to  resist, 
Too  gradual,  subtle,  bewilderingly  sweet, 
Wove  around  me,  which  deeper  grew  each  passing  week, 
'Till,  reckless  of  consequences,  secure  in 
My  disguise,  longing  passionately  for  something 
Tangible,  in  connection  with  him — a  line  traced 
By  his  hand,  or  the  paper  where  it  had  been  placed, 
Something,  anything,  which  was  or  had  been  his  own — 
I  sent  my  first  letter,  and,  as  has  been  shown, 


STOLEN  WATERS.  325 

Prophetically  chose  as  my  disguise 

The  name  "  Sitter- Sweet.'1''     Six  long  years  have  passed  by, 

And  a  few  days  ago  I  another  one  sent, 

In  the  same  manner  signed.     But  I  wrote  to  him  then 

As  unto  a  stranger,  unknown  to  him  quite, 

But  now  as  my  darling,  my  love,  my  delight ! 

What  was  then  a  dream  only  has  long  since  become 

A  blessed  reality  ;  and,  more  than  once 

I've  experienced  what  I  then  longed  for,  the  press 

Of  his  arm  around  me,  of  my  head  to  his  breast. 

JBitter-  Sweet !  bitter  has  been  indeed  that  note's  fruit ; 
Sweet,  intensely  sweet,  also !     The  plant's  language,  too, 
Which  I  carelessly  then  as  an  emblem  chose — truth — 
Has  run  through  the  whole  of  our  lives'  warp  and  woof, 
Since  we  ceased  to  be  strangers.     I  have  been,  I  feel, 
To  him  faithful,  and  he  is,  I  know,  true  as  steel. 
The  sweet's  been  predominant ;  and,  though  'tis  plain 
The  bitter  has  also  been  present,  it  came 
At  the  first,  as  the  name  indicates  ;  and  the  sweet 
Followed  swiftly,  is  thorough,  and  lasting,  and  deep. 

Just  six  years  to-day,  since  we  met  the  first  time  ! 
And  to-night  God  will  make  me  all  his,  him  all  mine. 
It  is  now  half-past  seven  !     A  few  moments  more, 
And  he  will  be  here.     And  though  I've  lingered  o'er 
This  hour's  pleasant  task,  I  must  leave  it  and  haste 
To  my  "  Epilogue." 

Love  is  the  "  Alpha  "  I  trace, 
The  "  Omega"  is  joy.     I've  for  once  known  the  taste 
Of  the  rare,  ruby  wine  of  entire  hapjyiness  f 
Something  seldom  attained,  scarcely  known  when  possessed. 


326  STOLEN  WATERS. 

Every  burden  is  lightened,  each  cloud  is  dispelled ; 

Every  sorrow  is  banished,  all  gloom  is  expelled, 

By  the  bright  influence  of  the  rosy  contents 

Of  that  magic  goblet.     Whatever  is  meant 

For  me  in  the  future,  I  then  can  look  back 

To  these  moments  so  joyous  and  glad,  thinking  that 

Once,   at  least,  have  my  heart-strings   been  swept  by  the 

hand 
Of  true  happiness  ;  and  strains  of  music,  both  grand 
And  sweet,  his  magnetic  touch  followed.     Soft  strains 
"Which  vibrated  and  echoed,  until  they  became 
All  lost  in  my  joy's  deep  immensity. 

Then, 
"  What  matters  some  sorrow,  if  blissful 's  the  end  ?  " 

The  voice  of  my  love  !  and  I  think,  as  with  fleet, 
Eager  footsteps,  I  hasten  my  dear  one  to  meet, 
That  "  the  bitter  all  past,  far  more  welcome 's  the  sweet !  * 


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LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY 


Books    of   Amusement. 

the  art  of  amusing.— With  1 50  illustrations.  i2mo.  $1.50 

robinson  crusoe. — A  Complete  edition,  illustrated,    do.    $1.50 

By   the   Author   of  **  Rntledge." 


i2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 


sutledge. — A  deeply  interesting  novel. 

THE  SUTHERLANDS. do. 

FRANK    WARRINGTON. do. 

st.  pni lip's. —  do. 

louie's  last  term  at  st.  mary's. — 
roundhearts  and  other  stories. — For  children,  do. 
A  rosary  for  lent. — Devotional  Readings. 

Richard  B.  Kimball. 

was  he  successful? —    A  novel. 
undercurrents. —  do. 

saint  leger. —  do. 

ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT   LIFE. do. 

IN    THE    TROPICS. do. 

henry  powers,  Banker.       do. 

TO-DAY. do. 

Itt.  IWlchelet's  Remarkable  Works. 

loye(l'amour). — Translated  from  the  French.  i2mo.  el.,  $1.50 
woman  (la  femme). —        .        do.  .  .        do.       $1.50 

Ernest  Renan. 

the  life  of  jesus. — Translated  from  the  French.  i2mo.  cl.,$i.75 


do.     . 

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lives  of  the  apostles. —  do. 

THE  LIFE  OF  SAINT  PAUL. —  do. 


do. 
do. 


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Popular   Italian  Novels. 

doctor  antonio. — A  love  story.     By  Ruffini.     i2mo.  cl. 
Beatrice  cenci. — B»y  Guerrazzi.  with  portrait.        do. 

Geo.  YV.  Carleton. 
our  artist  in  cuba. — With  50  comic  illustrations. 
our  artist  in  peru. —  do.  do. 

our  artist  in  Africa. — {In  press)  do.  ; 

Julie    P.  Smith. 
widow  goldsmith's  daughter. — A  novel.       i2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

CHRIS  AND  OTUO. 

the  widower. — {In  press) 

Mansfield   T. 
Warwick. — A  new  novel. 
lulu. —  do. 

hotspur. —  do. 

btormcliff. —      do. 
A  new  book. —    do.        {In  press) 


do. 
do. 


$i-75 
$1-75 


do. 
do. 
Walworth. 

i2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 
do.  $1.75 
do.  $1.75 
do.  $1.75 
do.        $1.75 


O.   W.   CAIiLETON  dc  CO.,  NEW  YORK. 


IUImm  llanioiiM     Worki. 

FRENcn  love  songs. — By  the  best  French  authors. 
beauty  is  power. — An  admirable  book  for  ladies. 
Italian  life  and  legenos. — By  Anna  Cora  Ritchie 
life  and  death. — A  new  American  novel. 
how  to  make  money  ;  and  how  to  keep  it. — Davies 
TnE  cloister  and  the  hearth. — By  Charles  Reade 
tales  from  the  operas. — The  Plots  of  all  the  Operas 
love  in  letters. — An  interesting  and  piquant  book. 
out  in  the  world. — A  novel.  By  T.  S.  Arthur, 
what  came  afterwards. —  do.  do. 

our  neighbors. —  do.  do. 

light  on  snADOWED  PATns. — do.  do. 

adventures  of  a   honeymoon. — A  love  story. 
the  bible  in  india. — From  the  French  of  Jacolliot. 
among  TnE  pines. — Down  South.     By  Edmund  Kirke 

MY    SOUTHERN    FRIENDS. do.  .  do. 

DOWN     IN     TENNESSEE. do.  .  do. 

ADRIFT    IN    DIXIE do.  .  do. 

among  the  guerillas. —    do.         a    .  do. 

A    book    about  lawyers. — Bright  and  interesting. 

A    BOOK    AROUT    DOCTORS. do.  do. 

woman,  love,  and  marriage. — By  Fred.  Saunders 
the  game  Fisn  of  the  north. — By  R.  B.   Roosevelt 
TnE  game  birds  of  TnE  NORTn. —       do.         do. 
prison  life  of  jefferson  davis. — By  J.  J.  Craven 

POEMS    BY     L.     G.     THOMAS. 

pastimes  with  my  little   friends. — Mrs.  Bennett. 
the    great    tribulation. — By    Dr.  John  Cumming, 
the  great  preparation. —      do.         .  .    do. 

THE    GREAT    CONSUMMATION. do.  .  .      do. 

the  squibo  3  papers. — A  comic  book.     John  Phoenix 

cousin  paul. — A  new  American  novel. 

jargal. — A  novel  from  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo. 

CLAUDE    GUEUX. do.  do.  do. 

life  of  victor  nuGo. —  do.  do. 

the  philosophers   of   foufouville. — A  Satire. 
wegroes  in  negroland. — By  Hinton  Rowan  Helper. 
Alabama    and    sumter    cruise.  — Raphael   Semmes 
Christmas  holly. — By  Marion   Harland,    Illustrated 
the  Russian  ball. — An  illustrated  satirical  Poem. 
the  snoblace  ball. —       do.  do 

the  prince  of  kashna. — Edited  by  R.  B.  Kimball 
the  last  warning  ory. — By    Rev.  John  Cumming 


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PUBLISHED   BY   G.    W.   CA11LET0N  <fc    CO. 


Miscellaneous  Works. 
a  lost  life. — A  novel  by  Emily  H.  Moore    .     .     . 
crown  jewels. —  do.  Mrs.  Emma  L.  Mofiett 

adrift  with  A  vengeance. —       Kinahan  Cornwallis. 
the  franco-prussian  war  in  1870. — By  M.  D.  Landon 
dream  music. — Foems  by  Frederic  Rowland  Marvin. 
rambles  in  cuba. — By  an  American  Lady. 
behind  the  scenes,  in  the  White  House. — Keckley. 
yaciitman's  frimer. — For  Amateur  Sailors. — Warren 
rural  architecture. — By  M.  Field.  With  illustrations 
treatise  on  deafness. — By  Dr.  E.  B.  Lighthill 
women  and  THEATRES. — A  new  book,  by  Olive  Logan 
Warwick.  — A  new  novel  by  Mansfield  Tracy  Walworth 
8I3YL  huntington. — A  novel  by  Mrs.  J.  C.  R.  Dorr, 
living  writers  of  TnE  south. — By  Prof.  Davidson. 
strange  visitors. — A  book  from  the  Spirit  World. 
up  Broadway,  and  its  Sequel. — A  story  by  Eleanor  Kirk 
military  record,  of  Appointments  in  the  U.S.  Army 
honor  bright. — A  new  American  novel. 

MALBROOK. do.  do.  do. 

quilty  or  not  guilty. —        do.         do. 

Robert  greatjiouse. — A  new  novel  by  John  F.  Swift 

the  golden  cross,  and  poems  by  Irving  Van  Wart,  jr 

athaliah. — A  new  novel  by  Joseph  H.  Greene,  jr, 

regina,  and  other  poems. — By  Eliza  Cruger. 

the  wickedest  woman  in  new  york. — By  C.  H.  Webb 

montalban. — A  new  American  novel. 

mademoiselle  merquem. — A  novel  by  George  Sand. 

the  impending  crisis  of  THE  SOUTH. — By  H.  R.  Helper 

nojoque — A  Question  for  a  Continent. —         do, 

paris  in  1867. — By  Henry  Morford.     . 

the  bishop's  son. — A  novel  by  Alice  Cary. 

cruise  of  the  Alabama  and  sumter. — ByCapt.  Semmes 

Helen  courtenay. — A  novel,  author  "  Vernon  Grove.' 

souvenirs  of  travel. — By  Madame  OctaviaW.  LeVert 

vanquished. — A  novel  by  Agnes  Leonard. 

will-o'-the-wisp. — A  child's  book,  from  the  German 

four  oaks. — A  novel  by  Kamba  Thorpe, 


the  Christmas  font. — A  child's  book,  by  M.  J.  Holmes 

POEMS,  BY  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

mary  brandegee — A  novel  by  Cuyler  Pine 

RENSHAWE. do.  do. 

mount  calvary. — By  Matthew  Hale  Smith 
promitheus  in  Atlantis. — A  prophecy. 
riTAU  agonistes. — An  American  novel 


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UC  SOUTHERN!  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


linn  ion 
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